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This  book  may  be  keot 


PASTORAL    DAYS 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2011  with  funding  from 

LYRASIS  members  and  Sloan  Foundation 


http://www.archive.org/details/pastoraldaysormeOOgibs 


PASTORAL  DAYS 


OR 


MEMORIES  OF  A  NEW  ENGLAND  YEAR 


BY 

W.   HAMILTON    GIBSON 


'Uustrateb 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER     &     BROTHERS,    FRANKLIN     SQUARE 

1886 


— &:2x5- 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1880,  by 

HARPER   &    BROTHERS, 
In  the   Office   of  the   Librarian   of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Al^  rights  reserved. 


TO 

ONE   WHOSE    CLOSE   COMPANIONSHIP 

HAS    WROUGHT   THAT    HARMONY   AND    PEACE    OF    MIND    FROM   WHICH    THIS 

BOOK   HAS   SPRUNG,  AND  TO  WHOM   ITS   EVERY  PAGE   RECALLS 

A    REMINISCENCE    OF    THE    PAST    IDENTIFIED 

WITH  MEMORIES   OF  MY  OWN 

€1)10   iHcmoir   is   Cooinglji   SnscribeiJ 

OUR  SOUVENIR 


PAGE 


The   Cycle. 

Spring  : 

The  Awakeniiig 19 

Summer  : 

The  Consummation 51 

Autumn  : 

The   Waning gi 

Winter  : 

Tlie  Sleep 125 


Illustrations. 


DESIGNED    BY 


W.  Hamilton  Gibson. 


TITLE.  ENGRAVER,  PAGE 

THE   KINDLED   FLAME W.  H.  Clark   . i8 

THE  AWAKENING H.  Gray ig 

A   SPRING   MORNING F.  S.  King 21 

CATKINS John  Filmer 23 

PUSSIES .•     •     •     •        "          " 23 

EARLY   PLOUGHING H.  Wolf 25 

THE   RETURN   FROM   THE   FIELDS George  Smith 26 

VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT John  Filmer 27 

A   RAINY   DAY J.  Hellawell 29 

A   PIANDFUL   FROM   THE   WOODS H.  Gray 32 

AFTER  ARBUTUS J.  Tinkey 34 

THE   FAIRY  FROND J.  P.  D.wis 35 

AN   APRIL   DAY George  Smith 36 

AMONG   THE   WILD    FLOWERS Smithwick  and  French 37 

THE  COLUMBINE R.  HosKiN  , 38 

THE   MEADOW   BROOK "         "          40 

THE   PHCEBE'S   NEST W.  IT.  Morse 41 

BUILDING   THE   NEST ' Henry  Marsh 42 

IN   THE  APPLE   ORCHARD R.  Hoskin 43 

LITTLE   PLUNDERERS A.  Hayman 45 

ONE  OF   NATURE'S   MARVELS H.  Marsh 46 

BLUE-FLAGS R.  Hoskin 47 

THE   CONSUMING  FLAME W.  H.  Clark 50 

THE   CONSUMMATION N.  Orr 51 

DOLCE   FAR   NIENTE ' F.S.King 35 

THE   OLD   GARRET F.  Juengling 56 


XIV  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

TITLE.  ENGRAVER.  PAGE 

AMID   THE   GRASSES .     .    F.  S.  King 58 

EVEN-TIDE G.  Kruell 60 

THROUGH   THE   SEDGES R.  Hoskin 62 

AMONG  THE   BOGS J.  Tinkey 63 

SOME  ART   CONNOISSEURS R.  Hoskin 64 

PROFESSOR  WIGGLER J.  Filmer 65 

THE   TYRANT   OF   THE    FIELDS H.  E.  Schultz 67 

FAMILIAR  FACES  AT  THE  VILLAGE  STORE  .     .    R.  A.  Muller       .70 

A  SOUVENIR Smithwick  and  French 72 

ALONG  THE   HOUSATONIC George  Smith 74 

jUDD'S   BRIDGE P.  Annin 78 

THE   HAUNTED   MILL J.  Hellawell ,••    •     79 

PURSUERS  AND   PURSUED '.     .    .     .    George  Andrew 81 

TOLLING  FOR   THE   DEAD R.  Schelling   .     .     .• 83 

WRECKS   OF    THE   TORNADO J.  Filmer 84 

PASSING  THOUGHTS H.  Gray 86 

THE   SMOULDERING  FLAME "        " go 

THE  WANING A.:  Hayman -.     .    91 

"EVERY  BREEZE  A  SIGH" F.S.King 93 

AN   OCTOBER   DAY Smithwick  and  French 96 

A  WAY-SIDE   PASTORAL      J.  Hellawell 97 

WAIFS Henry  Marsh 100 

IN   THE   CORNFIELD W.  Miller 102 

THE   ROAD   TO   THE   MILL E.  Held 105 

THE   CIDER-MILL J.  P.  Davis 107 

THE  "LINE   STORM" R.  Hoskin 109 

A  POINTED   REMINDER J.  Filmer iii 

AFTER  THE   SHELL-BARKS George  Smith      . 113 

A  CORNER  OF   THE   FARM J.  Tinkey 115 

BEECH-NUTTING W.  H.  Morse 118 

THE   NORTH  WIND Morse  and  Hoskin 120 

DESERTED Henry  Deis 121 

THE   FLAME   EXTINGUISHED H.  Gray 124 

THE   SLEEP J.  Tinkey 125 

THE   TOMB J.  P.  Davis 127 

SNOW-FLAKES   OF   MEMORY George  Smith 129 

THE   OLD   MILL-POND H.  Gray 131 

THE   FIRST   SNOW       George  Smith       133 

MUTE   PROPHECIES H.  E.  Schultz 135 

THE   TWTTCII-UP F.  S.  King 137 


ILLUSTRATIONS.  xv 

TITLE.  ENGRAVER.                                                                                  PAGE 

THE  WINTER'S   DARLING Henry  Marsh 139 

WHO'S  THAT  ? H.  Wolf 140 

SUNSHINE  AND   SHADOW  IN  THE  WOODS  .     .     R.  HosKiN 141 

A  SUNNY  CORNER AV.  H.  Morse 143 

WINTER  BROWSING Smithwick  and  French 144 

A  JANUARY   THAW J.  Filmer 145 

THE   MOONLIGHT   RIDE J.  Hell.uvell 147 

THE   SHADOWED   PAGE J.  Tinkey       149 

THE   GOOD   PHYSICIAN R.  Schelling 151 

THE   FULFILMENT Smithwick  and  French 153 


Spring. 


A  S  far  as   the 

eye    can    reach,  the 
snow  lies  in   a  deep  mantle   over  the 
cheerless  landscape.     I  look  out  upon  a  dreary  moor,  where 
the  horizon  melts  into  the  cold  gray  of  a  heavy  sky.     The  restless  wind 


22  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

sweeps  with  pitiless  blast  through  shivering  trees  and  over  bleak  hills, 
from  whose  crests,  like  a  great  white  veil,  the  clouds  of  hoary  flakes  are 
Ufted  and  drawn  along  by  the  gale.  Down  the  upland  slope,  across  the 
undulating  field,  the  blinding  drift,  Hke  a  thing  of  life,  speeds  in  its  wild 
caprice,  now  swirling  in  fantastic  eddies  around  some  isolated  stack,  half 
hidden  in  its  chill  embrace,  now  winding  away  over  bare-blown  wall  and 
scraggy  fence,  and  through  the  sighing  willows  near  the  frozen  stream; 
now  with  a  wild  whirl  it  flies  aloft,  and  the  dark  pines  and  hemlocks  on 
the  mountain-side  fade  away  in  its  icy  mist.  Again,  yonder  it  appears 
trailing  along  the  meadow,  until,  flying  like  some  fugitive  spirit  chased 
from  earth  by  the  howling  wind,  it  vanishes  in  the  sky.  On  every  side 
these  winged  phantoms  lead  their  flying  chase  across  the  dreary  land- 
scape, and  fence  and  barn  and  house  upon  the  hill  in  turn  are  dimmed  or 
lost  to  sight. 

Who  has  not  watched  the  strange  antics  of  the  drifting  snow  whirling 
past  the  window  on  a  blustering  winter's  day  ?  But  this  is  not  a  winter's 
day.     This  is  the  advent  of  a  New  England  spring. 

Fortunate  are  we  that  its  promises  are  not  fulfilled,  for  the  ides  of 
March  might  as  oft  betoken  the  approach  of  a  tempestuous  winter  as 
of  a  bahiiy  spring.  Consecrated  to  Mars  and  Tantalus,  it  is  a  month  of 
contradictions  and  disappointments,  of  broken  promises  and  incessant 
warfare.  It  is  the  struggle  of  tender  awakening  life  against  the  buffet- 
ings  of  rude  and  blighting  elements.  No  man  can  tell  what  a  day  may 
bring  forth.  Now  we  look  out  verily  upon  bleak  December ;  to-morrow 
— who  knows  .? — we  may  be  transported  into  May,  and,  with  aspirations 
high,  feel  our  ardor  cooled  by  a  blast  of  ice  and  a  blinding  fall  of  snow. 
But  this  cannot  always  last,  for  soon  the  southern  breezes  come  and  hold 
their  sway  for  days,  and  the  north  wind,  angry  in  its  defeat,  is  driven  back 
in  lowering  clouds  to  the  region  of  eternal  ice  and  snow.  Then  comes  a 
lovely  day,  without  even  a  cloud — all  blue  above,  all  dazzling  white  below. 
The  sun  shines  with  a  glowing  warmth,  and  we  say  unto  ourselves,  "  This 
is,  indeed,  a  harbinger  of  spring."  The  sugar-maples  throb  and  trickle 
with  the  flowing  sap,  and  the  lumbering  ox-team  and  sled  wind  through 
the  woods  from  tree  to  tree  to  relieve  the  overflowing  buckets.  The 
boiling  caldron  in  the  sugar-house  near  by  receives  the  continual  supply, 
and  gives  forth  that  sweet-scented  steam  that  issues  from  the  open  door, 
and  comes  to  us  in  occasional  welcome  whiffs  across  the  snow.  Long 
"wedges"  of  wild-geese  are  seen  cleaving  the  sky  in  their  northward  flight. 


SFjRIA^G. 


22> 


The   little   pussies   on   the    willows   are   coaxed 
from  their  winter  nest,  and  creep  out  upon  the 
stem.     The  solitary  bluebird  makes 
his    appearance,  flitting    along    the 
A      thickets    and  stone    walls    with   little 
hesitating  warble,  as  if  it  were  not  yet 
the  appointed  time  to  sing ;   and  down 
among  the  bogs,  that  cautious  little  pio- 
neer, the  swamp-cabbage  flower,  peers  above 
the  ground  beneath  his  purple-spotted  hood. 
He   knows   the   fickle   month  which  gives 
him  birth,  and  keeps  well  under  cover. 

Such  days  in  March  are  too  perfect  to 
endure,  and  at  night  the  sky  is  overcast  and 
Then  follows  a  long  warm  rain  that 
nlocks     the     ice    in     all     the    streams. 
The  whiteness  of  the  hills  and  meadows 
melts   into  broad  contracting  strips  and 
patches.      One  by  one,  as   mere   specks 
upon  the  landscape,  these  vanish  in  turn, 
until  the  last  vestige  of  winter  is  washed 
from  the  face  of  the  earth  to  swell  the 
tide  of  the  rushing  stream.      Even   now, 
from  the  distant  valley,  we  hear  a  contin- 
uous muffled  roar,  as  the  mighty  freshet,  im- 
pelled by  an  irresistible  force,  ploughs  its  tortuous 
channel  through  the  lowlands  and  ravines.     The 
quiet  town  is   filled  with  an    unusual  commo- 
tion.    Excited  groups  of  towns-people  crowd 
;li^7v%'>-     ^^^^   village    store,  and  eager  voices   tell  of 
'    ^^"    '      the   havoc   wrought   by  the  fearful  flood. 
We  hear  how  the  old  toll-bridge,  with 
tollman's  house    and  all,  was   lifted 
from  its  piers  like  a  pile  of  straw, 
and  whirled   away   upon   the    cur- 
rent.    How  its  floating  timbers,  in  a 
great   blockade,  crushed  into   the   old  mill- 
pond  ;    how  the   dam   had  burst,  and  the   rick- 


24  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

ety  red  saw -mill  gone  to  pieces  down  the  stream.  Farmer  Nathan's 
barn  had  gone,  and  his  flat  meadows  were  like  a  whirling  sea,  strewn 
with  floating  rails  and  driftwood.  Every  hour  records  its  new  disaster 
as  some  eager  messenger  returns  from  the  excited  crowds  which  line 
the  river-bank.  How  well  I  remember  the  fascinating  excitement  of  the 
spring  freshet  as  I  watched  the  rising  water  in  the  big  swamp  lot,  anx- 
ious lest  it  might  creep  up  and  undermine  the  wall  foundations  of  the 
barn !  And  what  a'  royal  raft  I  made  from  the  drifting  logs  and  beams, 
and  with  the  spirit  of  an  adventurous  explorer  sailed  out  on  the  deep 
gliding  current,  floating  high  among  the  branches  of  the  half  submerged 
willow-trees,  and  scraping  over  the  tips  of  the  tallest  alder-bushes,  whose 
highest  twigs  now  hardly  reached  the  surface  !  How  deep  and  dark  the 
water  looked  as  I  lay  upon  the  raft  and  peered  into  the  depths  below ! 
But  this  jolly  fun  was  of  but  short  duration.  The  flood  soon  subsided, 
and  on  the  following  morning  nothing  was  seen  excepting  the  settlings 
of  debris  strewn  helter-skelter  over  the  meadow,  and  hanging  on  all  the 
bushes. 

The  tepid  rain  has  penetrated  deep  into  the  yielding  ground,  and 
with  the  winter's  frost  now  coming  to  the  surface,  the  roads  are  well-nigh 
impassable  with  their  plethora  of  mud.  For  a  full  appreciation  of  mud 
in  all  its  glory,  and  in  its  superlative  degree,  one  should  see  a  New  Eng- 
land highway  "  when  the  frost  comes  out  of  the  ground."  The  roads  are 
furrowed  with  deep  grimy  ruts,  in  which  the  bedabbled  wheels  sink  to 
their  hubs  as  in  a  quicksand,  and  the  hoofs  of  the  floundering  horse  are 
held  in  the  swampy  depths  as  if  in  a  vise.  For  a  week  or  more  this 
state  of  things  continues,  until  at  length,  after  warm  winds  and  sunny 
days,  the  ground  once  more  packs  firm  beneath  the  tread.  This  marks 
the  close  of  idle  days.  The  junk  pile  in  the  barn  is  invaded,  and  the 
rusty  plough  abstracted  from  the  midst  of  rakes  and  scythes  and  other 
fanning  tools.  The  old  white  horse  thrusts  his  long  head  from  the  stall 
near  by,  and  whinnies  at  the  memories  it  revives,  and  with  pricked-up 
ears  and  whisking  tail  tells  plainly  of  the  eagerness  he  feels. 

Back  and  forth  through  the  sloping  lot  the  ploughman  slowly  turns 
the  dingy  sward,  and  in  the  rich  brown  furrow,  following  in  his  track, 
we  see  the  cackling  troop  of  hens,  and  the  lordly  rooster,  with  great 
ado,  searches  out  the  dainty  tidbits  for  his  motley  crowd  of  favorites. 
The  whole  landscape  has  become  infused  with  human  life  and  motion. 
Wherever  the  eye  may  turn  it  sees  the  evidences  of  varied  and  hopeful 


SPRING. 


25 


EARLY   PLOUGHING. 


industry.  Yonder  we  notice  an  oft-recurring  little  puff  of  mist,  like  a 
burlesque  snow-drift,  ever  and  anon  bursting  into  view,  and  softly  van- 
ishing against  the  sward ;  another  glance  detects  the  slow  progress  of 
horse  and  cart,  as  the  farmer  sows  his  load  of  plaster  across  the  whiten- 
ing field.  Farther  up,  where  the  brow  of  the  hill  stands  clear  against 
the  sky,  a  pacing  figure,  with  measured  sweep  of  arm,  scatters  the  hand- 
fuls  of  wheat,  and  team  and  harrow  soon  are  in  his  path,  combing  and 
crumbling  the  dark-brown  mould.  High  curling  wreaths  of  smoke  wind 
upward  from  the  flat  swamp  lot  beyond,  where  hilarious  boys  enjoy  both 
work  and  play  in  burning  off  the  brush.  Here  we  shall  see  the  first 
welcome  nibble  of  fresh  grass  for  the  poor  bereaved  cow,  whose  lament- 
ing bleat  now  echoes  through  the  barn  near  by ;  and  for  those  oxen,  too, 
that  with  swaying,  clumsy  gait  lug  the  huge  roller  across  the  neighboring 
field.  And  what  strange  yells  and  exclamations  guide  them  in  their 
labored  progress  !  "  Ho  back  !  "Gee  up,  ahoy  !  Ho  haw  !"  From  every 
direction,  in  voices  near,  and  othei's  faint  with  distance,  we  hear  this 
same  queer  jargon.  Who  could  believe  that  so  much  good  work  hung 
upon  the  incessant  reiteration  of  that  brief  and  monotonous  vocabulary .? 
Rather  would  we  listen  to  the  musical  ring  of  the  laughing  children 
riding  on  the  big  "brush  harrow"  down  through  that  barn -yard  lane 
beyond.     Now  they  are   out  upon   the  broken  ground  where  John  has 

strewn   the  "compost"  to  be  "brushed  in."     A  broad  flat  wake  follows 

4 


26 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


them  around  the  field,  and  that  same  troop  of  hens  and  turkeys  revel  in 
the  lively  feast  spi^ead  out  before  them  in  the  loose  uioturning. 

So  runs  the  record  of  a  busy  day  in  the  early  New  England  spring- 
time, and  with  its  all-absorbing  industry  it  is  a  day  that  passes  quickly. 
The  afternoon  runs  into  evening.  Cool  shadows  creep  across  the  land- 
scape as  the  glowing  sun  sinks  through  the  still  bare  and  leafless  trees 
and  disappears  behind  the  wooded  hills.  The  fields  are  now  deserted, 
and  through  the  uncertain  twilight  we  see  the  little  knots  of  workmen 
with  their  swinging  pails,  and  hear  their  tramp  along  the  homeward  road. 
In  the  dim  shadows  of  the  evergreens  beyond,  a  faint  gray  object  steals 
into  view.     Now  it  stops  at  the  old  watering-trough,  and  I  hear  the  sip  of 


RETURN    FROM   THE   FIELDS. 


the  eager  horse  and  the  splash  of  overflowing  water.  Some  belated 
ploughman,  fresh,  perhaps,  from  a  half-hours  gossip  at  the  village  store. 
I  hear  the  sound  of  hoofs  upon  the  stones  as  they  renew  their  way,  the 
dragging  of  the  chain  upon  the  gravelly  bed,  and  the  receding  form  is  lost 
in  the  darkening  road.  One  by  one  the  scattered  barns  and  houses  have 
disappeared  in  the  gathering  dusk,  marked  only  by  the  faint  columns  of 
blue  smoke  that  rise  above  the  trees,  and  melt  away  against  the  twilight 
sky.  I  look  out  upon  a  wilderness  of  gloom,  where  all  above  is  still  and 
clear,  and  all  below  is  wrapped  in  impenetrable  mystery.  A  plaintive  pip- 
ing trill  now  breaks  the  impressive  stillness.  Again  and  again  I  hear  the 
little  lonely  voice  vibrating  through  the  low-lying  mist.  It  is  only  a  little 
frog  in  some  far-off  marsh ;  but  what  a  sweet  sense  of  sadness  is  awa- 
kened l)y  that  lowly  melody!     How  its  weird  minor  key,  with  its  magic 


SPRING. 


27 


touch,  unlocks  the  treasures  of  the  heart.     Only  the  peeping  of  a  f 
but  where  in  all  the  varied  voices  of  the  night,  where,  even  among 
great  chorus  of  nature's  sweetest  music,  is 
there  another  song  so  lulling  in  its  dreamy 
melody,  so  full  of  that  emotive  charm  which 
quickens  the  human  heart  ?     How  often  in 
the  vague  spring  twilight  have  I  yielded  to 
the  strange,  fascinating  melancholy  awaken- 
ed by  the  frog's  low  murmur  at  the  water's 
edge  !      How  many   times  have   I  lingered 
near   some    swampy    roadside   bog,  and   let 
these  little  wizards  weave  their  mystic  spell 
about  my  willing  senses,  while  the  very  air 
seemed   to    quiver    in    the    fulness   of  their 
song !     I  remember  the  tangle  of  tall  and 
withered  rushes,  through  whose  mysterious 
depths  the  eye  in  vain  would  strive  to  pen- 
etrate at  the  sound  of  some  faint  splash  or 
ripple,  or  perhaps  at  the  quaint,  high-keyed 
note  of  some  little  isolated  hermit,  piping 
in  his  sombre  solitude.     I  recall  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  rising  moon,  as  its  great 
golden  face  peered  out  at  me  from  over 
the  distant  hill,  enclosing  half  the  sum- 
mit   against    its   broad   and   luminous 
surface.       Slowly    and    steadily    it 
seemed   to    steal    into    view,  until, 
risen  in  all  its  fulness,  I  caught  its 
image  in  the  trembling  ripples  at 
the  edge  of  the  soggy  pool,  where 
the  palpitating  water  responded  to 
the    frog's    low,  tremulous    mono- 
tone.    Higher  and  higher  it  sails 
across  the  inky  sky,  its  glow  now 
changed   to   a  silvery   pallor,  across 
whose    white    halo,  in    a    floating   film, 
the   ghostly  clouds  glide   in  their  silent 
A   dull    tinklinaf    of   some    distant 


rog; 
the 


flight. 


VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT. 


28  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

cow-bell  breaks  the  spell,  and  recalls  my  wandering  thoughts,  and  as 
I  again  take  up  my  way  along  the  moonlit  road,  the  glimmering  win- 
dows on  right  and  left  betray  the  hiding-places  of  a  score  of  humble 
homes.  Not  far  beyond  I  see  the  swinging  motion  of  a  flickering  lan- 
tern, as  some  tardy  farmer's  boy,  whistling  about  his  work,  clears  up  his 
nightly  chores.  Now  he  enters  the  old  barn-door.  I  see  the  light  glint- 
ing through  the  open  cracks,  and  hear  the  lowing  of  the  cows,  the  bleating 
of  the  baby-calf,  and  rattling  chains  of  oxen  in  the  stanchion  rows.  Now 
again  I  catch  the  gleam  at  the  open  door ;  the  swinging  light  flits  across 
the  yard,  and  the  old  corn-crib  starts  from  its  obscurity.  I  see  the  boyish 
figure  relieved  against  the  glow  within  as  a  basketful  of  yellow  ears  are 
gathered  for  the  impatient  mouths  in  the  noisy  manger  stalls.  Sing  on, 
my  boy,  enjoy  it  while  you  may !  That  venerable  barn  will  yield  a  fra- 
grance to  you  in  after-life  that  will  conjure  up  in  your  heart  a  throng  of 
memories  as  countless  as  the  shining  grains  that  glimmer  in  the  light 
you  hold,  and  as  golden,  too,  as  they.  I  wonder  if  those  soft-winged  bats 
squeak  among  the  clapboards,  or  make  their  fluttering  zigzag  swoops 
about  your  lantern  as  they  were  wont  to  do  in  olden  times. 

Then  there  was  that  big-eyed  owl,  too,  that  perched  upon  the  maple- 
tree  outside  my  window,  and  cried  as  if  its  heart  would  break  at  the  dole- 
ful tidings  it  foretold.  What  a  world  of  kind  solicitude  that  dolorous  bird 
awakened  in  our  superstitious  neighbor  across  the  road !  How  she  over- 
whelmed us  with  her  sympathy,  aroused  by  that  sepulchral  omen  !  But  I 
still  live,  and  so  does  the  owl,  for  aught  I  know ;  and  I  sometimes  think 
that  this  aged,  stooping  dame  over  the  way  has  never  fully  recovered 
from  her  disappointment,  for  she  always  greets  me  with  a  sigh  and  an 
injured  expression,  as  she  says,  in  her  high  and  tremulous  voice,  "  Well ! 
well !  back  agin  ez  hale  'n  hearty  's  ever ;  an'  arter  the  way  thet  ar  witch 
bird  yewst  teu  call  ye,  too,  night  arter  night.  Jest  teu  think  on't !  an' 
we'd  all  a'  gi'n  ye  up  fer  sartin.  Well !  well !  I  never  see  the  beat  on't. 
Yeu  deu  seem  teu  hang  on  paowerfiil  "  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
seemingly  in  which  to  swallow  the  bitter  pill,  she  usually  adds,  with  sad 
solicitude,  "  Feelin'  perty  toVble  teu,  I  spose .?"  But  the  "  witch  bird  " 
never  roused  my  serious  apprehensions.  I  remember  its  plaintive  cry 
only  as  a  tender  bit  of  pathos  in  the  pages  of  my  early  history. 

I  recall,  too,  the  pleasant  sound  upon  the  shingles  overhead  as  the 
dark-clouded  sky  let  fall  its  tell-tale  drops  to  warn  us  of  the  coming  rain. 
How  many  times  have  I  glided  into  dream-land  under  the  drowsy  influ- 


SPRING. 


29 


ence  of  the  patter  on  the  roof,  and  the  ever  varying  tattoo  upon  the  tin 
beneatli  the  dripping  eaves  !  Who  can  forget  those  rainy  days,  with  their 
Sfames  of  hide-and-seek  in  the  old  dark  garret !  How  we 
looked  out  upon  the  muddy  puddled  road,  and  laughed 
at  the  great  drifting  sheets  of  water  that  ever  and 
anon  poured  down  from  some  bursting  cloud,  and 
W^-^^^^ ^Z'^-'-'  I'oared  upon  the  roof !  And  as  the  driving  rain 
,^        beat    against    the   blurred    window-panes. 


^t-^\ 


what  strange  capers  the  squirming  tree' 


trunks  outside  seemed  to  play  foi 
our  amusement :   the  dark  door- 
way of  the  barn,  too — now  swell- 
ing  out   to    twice    its    size,  now 
stretching  long  and  thin,  or  divid- 
ing in  the  middle  in  its  queer  con- 
tortions.    Out  in  the  dismal  barn-yard 
we    saw  the  forlorn  row   of  hens   huddled 
together  on   the   hay-rick,  under  the  drizzling  straw-thatched 
shed ;   and  the  gabled  coop  near  by,  in  whose  dry  retreat  the 
motherly  old  hen  spread  her  tawny  wings,  and  yielded  the  warmth  of 


A   RAINY   DAY. 


30  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

her  ruffled  breast  to  the  tender  needs  of  her  Httle  family,  peeping  so  con- 
tentedly beneath  her.  The  rain-proof  ducks  dabble  in  the  neighboring 
puddles,  and  chew  the  muddy  water  in  search  of  floating  dainties,  or  gulp 
with  nodding  heads  the  unlucky  angle-worms  which  come  struggling  to 
the  surface — drowned  out  of  their  subterranean  tunnels. 

Now  we  hear  the  snapping  of  the  latch  at  the  foot  of  the  garret  stairs, 
and  we  are  called  to  come  and  see  a  little  outcast  that  John  has  brought 
in  from  the  wood-pile.  Close  beside  the  kitchen-stove  a  doubled  piece  of 
blanket  lies  upon  the  floor,  and  within  its  folds  we  find  what  once  was  a 
downy  little  chicken,  now  drenched  and  dying  from  exposure.  He  was 
a  naughty,  wayward  child,  and  would  persist  in  thinking  that  he  knew 
more  than  his  mother.  At  least  so  I  was  told — indeed,  it  was  impressed 
upon  me.  But  the  little  fellow  was  rescued  just  in  time.  The  warmth 
will  soon  revive  him,  and  by-and-by  we  shall  hear  his  little  chirp  and  see 
him  trot  around  the  kitchen-floor,  pecking  at  that  everlasting  fly,  perhaps, 
or  at  some  tiny  red-hot  coal  that  snaps  out  from  the  stove. 

Little  did  we  suspect  the  mission  of  those  rainy  days,  so  drear  and 
dismal  without,  or  the  sweet  surprise  preparing  for  us  in  the  myriad  mys- 
teries of  life  beneath  the  sod,  where  every  root  and  thread-like  rootlet  in 
the  thirsty  earth  was  drinking  in  that  welcome  moisture,  and  numberless 
sleeping  germs,  dwelling  in  darkness,  were  awakening  into  life  to  seek 
the  light  of  day,  waiting  only  for  the  glory  of  a  sunny  dawn  to  burst  forth 
from  their  hiding-places !  That  sunny  morn  does  come  at  last,  and  in  its 
beams  it  sheds  abroad  a  power  that  stirs  the  deepest  root.  It  is,  indeed, 
a  glorious  day.  The  clustered  buds  upon  the  silver-maples  burst  in  their 
exuberance,  and  fringe  the  graceful  branches  with  their  silken  tassels. 
The  restless  crocus,  for  months  an  unwilling  captive  in  its  winter  prison, 
can  contain  itself  no  longer,  and  with  its  little  overflowing  cup  lifts  up  its 
face  to  the  blue  heaven.  Golden  daffodils  burst  into  bloom  on  drooping 
stems,  and  exchange  their  little  nods  on  right  and  left.  The  air  is  filled 
with  a  faint  perfume,  in  which  the  very  earth  mould  yields  its  fragrance — 
that  wild  aroma  only  known  to  spring.  Our  little  feathered  friends,  so 
few  and  far  between  as  yet,  are  full  of  song.  The  bluebird  wooes  his  mate 
with  a  loving  warble,  full  of  tender  sweetness,  as  they  flit  among  the  sway- 
ing twigs,  or  pry  with  diligent  search  for  some  snug  nesting-place  among 
the  hollow  crannies  of  the  orchard  trees.  The  noisy  blackbirds  hold 
high  carnival  in  the  top  of  the  old  pine-tree,  the  woodpecker  taps  upon 
the  hollow  limb  his  resonant  tattoo,  and  the  hungry  crows,  like  a  posse  of 


SPJilNG.  31 

tramps,  hang  around  the  great  oak-tree  upon  the  knoll,  and  watch  to  see 
what  they  can  steal.  Down  through  the  meadow  the  gurgling  stream 
babbles  as  of  old,  and  along  its  fretted  banks  the  alder  thickets  are  hang- 
ing full  with  drooping  catkins  swinging  at  every  breeze.  The  glossy  wil- 
low-buds throw  off  their  coat  of  fur,  and  plume  themselves  in  their  wealth 
of  inflorescence,  lighting  up  the  brook-side  with  a  yellow  glow,  and  exhal- 
ing a  fresh,  delicious  perfume.  Here,  too,  we  hear  the  rattling  screech  of 
the  swooping  kingfisher,  as  with  quick  beats  of  wing  he  skims  along  the 
surface  of  the  stream,  and  with  an  ascending  glide  settles  upon  the  over- 
hanging branch  above  the  ripples.  All  these  and  a  thousand  more  I  viv- 
idly recall  from  the  memory  of  that  New  England  spring ;  but  sweetest  of 
all  its  manifold  surprises  was  that  crowning  consummation,  that  miracle 
of  a  single  night,  bringing  on  countless  wings  through  the  early  morning 
mist  the  welcome  chorus  of  the  returning  flocks  of  birds.  How  they 
swarmed  the  orchard  and  the  elms,  where  but  yesterday  the  bluebird  held 
his  sway !  Now  we  see  the  fiery  oriole  in  his  gold  and  jetty  velvet  flash- 
ing in  the  morning  sun,  and  robins  without  number  swell  their  ruddy 
throats  in  a  continuous  roundelay  of  song.  The  pert  cat -bird  in  his 
Quaker  garb  is  here,  and  with  flippant  jerk  of  tail  and  impertinent  mew 
bustles  about  among  the  arbor-vitces,  where  even  now  are  remnants  of  his 
last  year's  nest.  The  puffy  wrens,  too,  what  saucy,  sputtering  little  bursts 
of  glee  are  theirs  as  they  strut  upon  the  rustic  boxes  in  the  maples !  The 
fields  are  vocal  with  their  sweet  spring  medley,  in  which  the  happy  carols 
of  the  linnets  and  the  song  sparrows  form  a  continuous  pastoral.  Now 
we  hear  the  mellow  bell  of  the  wood  thrush  echoing  from  some  neighbor- 
ing tree,  and  all  intermingled  with  the  chatter  and  the  gossip  of  the  mar- 
tens on  their  lofty  house.  Birds  in  the  sky,  birds  in  the  trees  and  on  the 
ground,  birds  everywhere,  and  not  a  silent  throat  among  them ;  but  from 
far  and  near,  from  mountain-side  and  meadow,  from  earth  and  sky,  uniting 
in  a  happy  choral  of  perpetual  jubilee, 

Down  in  the  moist  green  swamp  lot  the  yellow  cowslips  bloom  along 
the  shallow  ditch,  and  the  eager  farmer's  wife  fills  her  basket  with  the 
succulent  leaves  she  has  been  watching  for  so  long;  for  they'll  tell  you 
in  New  England  that  "  they  ain't  noth'n'  like  caowslips  for  a  mess  o' 
greens."  Near  by  we  see  the  frog  pond,  with  lush  growth  of  arrow  leaves 
and  pickerel  weed,  and  flat  blades  of  blue-flag  just  starting  from  the  boggy 
earth.  Half  submerged  upon  a  lily  pad,  close  by  the  water's  edge,  an  ugly 
toad  sits  watching  for  some  winged  morsel  for  that  ample  mouth  of  his. 


32 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


Who  could  believe  that  so  much  poetic  inspiration  could  emerge  from 
such  a  mouth  as  that ;  for  verily  it  is  this  miserable-looking  toad  that  lifts 
his  little  voice  in  the  dreamy,  drowsy  chorus  of  the  twilight.  All  sorts 
of  odium  have  been  heaped  upon  the  innocent  toad ;  but  he  only  returns 
good  for  evil.  He  is  the  farmer's  faithful  friend.  He  guards  his  garden 
by  day,  and  lulls  him  to  sleep  by  night.  Yonder,  near  those  withered  cat- 
tails, we  see  the  village  boys  among  the  calamus- 
beds,  pulling  up  the  long  white  roots  tipped 
with  pink  and  fringed  with  trickling 
rootlets.  What  visions  of  candied  flag- 
root  stimulate  them  in  their  zeal !  I 
can  almost  see  the  tender,  juicy 
leaf -bud   screened   be- 

t' 
f 


\V 


A   HANDFUL  FROM   THE   WOODS. 

neath  that  smooth  pink  sheath,  and  its 

aromatic  pungency  is  as  fresh  and  real 

to   me   as  this   appetizing  fragrance  that 

comes    to    us    from    the    green    tufts    of 

spearmint  we  crush  beneath  our  feet  at  every 

step.     Bevies  of  swallows  all  around  us  skim 

throua;h  the  air,  like  feathered  darts,  in  their 

twittering  flight ;  and  the  restless  starling,  like 

a  field-marshal,  with   his   scarlet  epaulets,  keeps 

a   sharp   lookout  for  the   enemy,  and  "  flutes   his 

O-ka-lee "  from  the  high  alder-bush  at  the  slightest 


SPUING.  2,3 

approach  upon  his  chosen  ground.  Yonder  on  the  wooded  slope  the 
feathery  shad-tree  blooms,  like  a  suspended  cloud  of  drifting  snow  linger- 
ing among  the  gray  twigs  and  branches ;  and  chasing  across  the  matted 
leaves  beneath,  a  lively  troop  of  youngsters,  girls  and  boys,  make  the 
woods  resound  with  their  boisterous  jubilee.  A  jolly  band  of  fugitives 
fresh  from  the  stormy  week's  captivity — spring  buds  bursting  with  life, 
with  a  pent-up  store  of  spirits  that  finds  escape  in  an  effervescence  of 
ringing  laughs  and  in  a  din  of  incessant  jabber.  Well  I  know  the  buoy- 
ant exhilaration  that  impels  them  on  in  their  reckless  frolic,  as  they  skip 
from  stone  to  stone  across  the  rippling  stream,  or  "  stump  "  each  other  on 
the  treacherous  crossing -pole  which  spans  the  deep  still  current!  Now 
I  see  them  huddle  around  the  trickling  grotto  among  the  mossy  bowl- 
ders in  the  steep  gully  yonder,  where  the  mountain  spring  bubbles  into 
a  crystal  pool.  Alas !  how  quickly  its  faint  blue  border  of  hepaticas  is 
rifled  by  the  ruthless  mob !  Now  they  clamber  up  the  great  gray  rocks 
beneath  the  drooping  hemlocks,  stopping  in  their  headlong  zeal  to  snatch 
some  trembling  cluster  of  anemone,  nodding  from  its  velvety  bed  of  moss ; 
now  plunging  down  on  hands  and  knees,  shedding  innocent  blood  among 
an  unsuspecting  colony  of  fragile  bloom  —  those  glowing  blossoms  so 
welcome  in  the  early  spring!  Who  does  not  know  the  bloodroot — that 
shy  recluse  hiding  away  among  the  mountain  nooks,  that  emblem  of 
chaste  purity  with  its  bridal  ring  of  purest  gold.''  Who  has  not  seen  its 
tender  leaf-wrapped  buds  lifting  the  matted  leaves,  and  spreading  their 
galaxy  of  snowy  stars  along  the  woodland  path  ? 

Then  there  was  the  shy  arbutus,  too.  Where  in  all  the  world's  bou- 
quet is  there  another  such  a  darling  of  a  flower.?  And  where  in  all  New 
England  does  that  darling  show  so  full  and  sweet  a  face  as  in  its  home 
upon  that  sunny  slope  I  have  in  mind,  and  know  so  well }  Was  ever 
such  a  fragrant  tufted  carpet  spread  beneath  a  hesitating  foot.?  Even 
now,  along  the  lichen-dappled  wall  upon  the  summit,  I  see  the  lingering 
strip  of  snow,  gritty  and  speckled,  and  at  its  very  edge,  hiding  beneath  the 
covering  leaves,  those  modest  little  faces  looking  out  at  me — faces  which 
seemed  to  blush  a  deeper  pink  at  their  rude  discover}/.  No  other  flower 
can  breathe  the  perfume  of  the  arbutus,  that  earthy,  spicy  fragrance, 
which  seems  as  though  distilled  from  the  very  leaf -mould  at  its  roots. 
Often  on  this  sunny  slope,  so  sheltered  by  dense  pines  and  hemlocks,  have 
these  charming  clusters,  pink  and  white,  burst  into  bloom  beneath  the 
snow  in  March ;  and  even  on  a  certain  late  February  day,  we  discovered  a 

5 


34 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


•f*i% 


little,  solitary  clump,  fully  spread,  and  fairly  ruddy 

with  the  cold.      Here,  too,  we  found  the  earliest 

-^      sprays  of  the  slender  maidenhair;   that  fairy 

frond   and  loveliest    among  ferns,  with   black 

and   lustrous    stems,  and   graceful    spread    of 

tender  gauzy  green. 

Where  was   the  nook  in  all   that  hill -side 

woods   that   we   left   unsearched   in    our  April 

ramblings  1     I  recall  the  "  tat,"  "  tat "  upon  the 

dry  carpet  of  beech  leaves,  as  the  delicate 

V  ^      anemone   in    my   hand  is   dashed  by   a 

falling  drop  !     Lost  in  eager  occupation, 

\  we  had   not  observed  the   shadow   that 

had  stolen  through  the  forest;  and  now, 

as  we  look  out  through  the  trees,  we 

see  the  steel-blue  warning  of  the  com- 


ing shower,  and  feel  the 
first  gust  of  the  tell-tale 
how    the    wil- 


breeze 


lows  wave  and  gleam 
against  the  deep  gray 
clouds,  so  weirdly  re- 
flected in  the  gliding 
stream  beneath,  like  an 
open  seam  to  another 
sky  !  Sec  the  silvery  flashes 
of  that  flock  of  pigeons   circling 


AFTER  ARBUTUS. 


SPJilNG. 


35 


against  the  lurid  background.  No,  we  cannot  stop  to  see  them,  for  the 
rain-drops  begin  to  patter  thick  and  fast.  Away  we  scamper  to  the  shel- 
ter of  the  overhanging  rocks.     The  lowering  sky  rolls  above  us  through 

the  branches.     The  glassy  sur- 
face   of    the    brook 
takes  on  a  leaden 
hue    as    the    rain- 
cloud  drags  its  misty 


THE   FAIRY    FROND. 


the  distant  hill  is  lit  up  by  the  bursting  sun.  Nearer  and  nearer  the 
gleam  creeps  across  the  landscape,  chasing  the  shower  away,  and  in  a 
moment  more  the  meadows  glow  with  a  freshened  green,  and  the  trees 


36 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


stand  transfigured  in  glistening  beads  flashing  in  the  sunbeams.  The 
quickened  earth  gives  forth  its  grateful  incense,  and  even  an  enthusiastic 
frog  down  in  the  Hly-pond  sends  up  his  Httle  vote  of  thanks. 

April's  woods  are  teeming  with  all  forms  of  life,  if  one  will  only  look 
for  them.  On  every  side  the  ferns,  curled  up  all  winter  in  their  dormant 
sleep,  unroll  their  spiral  sprays,  and  reach  out  for  the  welcome  sun.  The 
spicy  colt's-foot,  or  wild  ginger,  lifts  its  downy  leaves  among  the  mossy 
rocks  and  crevices,  and  its  homely  flower  just  peeps  above  the  ground, 
and,  with  a  lingering  glance  at  the  blushing  Rue  anemone  close  by,  hangs 
its  humble  head,  never  to  look  up  again.  High  above  us  the  eccentric 
cpttonwood-tree  dangles  its  long  speckled  plumes,  so  silvery  white.  Now 
we  hear  a  mellow  drumming  sound,  as  some  unsuspecting  grouse,  con- 
cealed among  the  undergrowth  near  by,  beats  his  resonant  breast.  Could 
we  but  get  a  glimpse  of  him,  we  would  see  him  simulate  the  barn-yard 
gobbler,  as  with  proud  strut  and  spreading  tail  he  disports  himself  upon 
some  fallen  log  or  mossy  rock.  Perhaps,  too,  that  coy  mate  is  near,  ad- 
miring his  show  of  gallantry,  and  holding  a  sly  flirtation. 

Look  at  this  craggy  precipice  of  rock,  lost  above  among  the  green- 
tasselled  evergreens,  and  trickling  with  crystal  drops  from  every  drooping 
sprig  of  moss.  How  its  rugged  surface  is  painted  with  the  mottled  lich- 
ens of  every  hue,  here  like  a  faint  tinge  of  cool  sage-green,  and  there  in 
larse  brown  blotches  of  rich  color !  See  the  fringe  of  ferns  that  bursts 
from  the  fissure  across  its  surface.     There  the  trillium  hangs  its  three- 


SPRING. 


37 


cleft  flower  of  rich  maroon ;  and  later  we  shall  see  the  fern-like  spray  of 
Solomon's-seal  swinwino-  its  little  row  of  straw-colored  bells  from  the  ledare 
above.     Airy  columbines,  too,  shall  float  their  scarlet  pendants  on  fragile 


mi 


^^55r 


'\ 


7 


AMONG   THE  WILD    FLOWERS. 


^  stems,  and  with  their  graceful  nod  tell  of 

the    slightest   breeze,  when    all   else    is    still. 

What   is   that   cinnamon -brown   bird   that   hops   along   the   stone   wall 

yonder  ?      Now  he  alights   upon  the  tulip-tree,  and  swells  his  speckled 

breast  in  a  series  of  short  experiments  —  a  broken  song,  in  which  every 


'  r^ 


note  or  call  has 
its  twin  echo.     A  "  mock- 
ing-thrush"  he  is,  indeed, 
for  he  mimics  his  own 
:-  song    from    morn    till 

nio-ht  in    all   the    thick- 
ets  and  pasture-lands.      Take   care      '"' 
there  !    why,  you    almost   trod   upon 
that    feathery    tuft    of    "  Dutchman's 
breeches."      Oh,  who  is  he  that 
dared  to  clothe  this  sweet  blos- 
som   in    such    an    ignominious 
title  ?     Where  is   the   Dutchman 
who  ever  wore  unmentionables  of  such 
exquisite  pink  satin   as   that  pale  di- 
ceutra  wears  1     No  wonder  their 
little  broken  hearts  droop  at  the        .-- 
insult ! 

The  grotesque   Jack-in-the-pulpit,  rising    above 


■#^^k-~' 


THE   COLUMBINE. 


SPRING.  39 

that  crumbling  log,  is  named  more  to  my  mind.  There  he  stands  be- 
neath his  striped  canopy,  and  preaches  to  me  a  sermon  on  the  well- 
remembered  rashness  of  my  youth  in  trifling  with  that  subterranean  bulb 
from  which  he  grows.  But  I  ignored  his  warning  in  those  early  days. 
I  only  knew  that  a  real  nice  boy  across  the  way  seemed  very  fond  of 
those  little  Indian  turnips,  called  them  "  sugar-roots,"  and  said  that  they 
were  full  of  honey.  And  as  he  bit  off  his  eager  mouthful,  and  refused 
to  let  me  taste,  I  sought  one  for  myself,  and,  generous  boy  that  he  was,  he 
showed  me  where  to  find  the  buried  treasure.  It  was  like  a  small  turnip, 
an  innocent-looking  affair  (and  so  was  the  nice  boy's  modelled  piece  of 
apple,  by-the-way).  But  oh  !  the  sudden  revelation  of  the  red-hot  reservoir 
of  chain-lightning  that  crammed  that  innocent  bulb !  Even  as  I  think  of 
it,  how  I  long  once  more  to  interview  that  real  nice  boy  who  opened  up 
the  mysteries  of  the  "sugar- root"  to  my  tempted  curiosity.  Let  boys 
beware  of  this  wild,  red-hot  coal ;  and  should  they  be  impelled  by  a  desire 
to  test  the  unknown  flavor,  let  them  solace  themselves  with  a  less  danger- 
ous mixture  of  four  papers  of  cambric  needles  and  a  spoonful  of  pounded 
glass.  This  will  give  a  faint  suggestion  of  the  racy  pungency  of  the 
Indian  turnip.  Were  some  kind  friend  at  the  present  day  to  seek  to 
kill  me  off  with  poisoned  food,  I  should  forthwith  have  him  arrested  on 
a  charge  of  attempted  murder,  and  incarcerated  in  the  county  jail.  But 
what  would  be  wilful  homicide  in  the  man  is  only  a  guileless  proof  of 
friendship  in  the  boy,  and  his  affections  and  their  symptoms  present  a 
living  paradox ;  and  those  boisterous  days,  with  all  their  fond  caresses  in 
the  way  of  fights  and  bruises  and  black  eyes,  and  even  Indian  turnips, 
we  all  agree  were  full  of  fun  the  like  of  which  we  never  shall  see  again. 

How  well  we  remember  those  tramps  along  the  meadow  brook:  the 
dark,  still  holes  beneath  the  overhanging  rocks,  where,  with  golden  slip- 
ping loop  and  pole  and  cautious  creep,  we  wired  those  lazy,  unsuspecting 
"  suckers  "  on  the  gravelly  bed  below  !  Ah  !  what  scientific  angling  with 
the  rod  and  reel  in  later  years  has  ever  brought  back  the  keen  tingle  of 
that  primitive  sport.''  The  great  green  bull-frogs,  too,  in  the  lily-pond, 
disclosing  their  cavernous  resources  as  they  jumped  and  splashed  and 
sprawled  after  the  tantalizing  bit  of  red  flannel  on  that  dangling  hook ! 
We  recall  that  rickety  bridge  among  the  willows,  and  the  mossy  nest  of 
mud  so  firmly  fixed  upon  the  beam  beneath.  How  could  we  be  so  deaf 
to  the  pleading  of  those  little  phcebe-birds  that  fluttered  so  beseechingly 
about  us?     Then  there  was  that  deep   hole  in  the   sand -bank  near  the 


40 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


brook,  where    the    burrowing    kingfisher    hid    away   his    nest,  where   we 
watched  in  the  twilight  to  see  him  enter,  and,  with  big  round  stone  in 
readiness,  "  plugged  "  him  in  his  den !     What  fun  it  was  to  dig  him  out, 
and  ventilate  his   musty   nest   of  fish-bones  !     The 
starling  in  the  thicket  of  the  swamp  circled  through 
the  air  with  angry  "  Quit !  quit !"  as  we  picked  our 
way  through  the  bristling  bogs  so  close  upon  her 
nest.     We'll  not  forget  that  false  step  that  sent  us 
sprawling  in  the  green  slimy  mud,  at  the  first 
electrifying    glimpse    of   those    brown    spotted 
eggs.     The   high-holer,  too,  whose   golden   gleam 
of  wing  upon  the  bare  dead  tree  betrayed  his  nest- 
ing-place in  the  hollow  limb  —  was  ever  such 


MEADOW   BROOK. 


a  stimulus  offered  to 
the  eagerness  of  youth } 
Who  would  give  a  sec- 
ond thought  to  his  tender  shins  at  the  prospect  of  such 
a  prize  as  a  nest  of  high-hole's  eggs .''  How  round  and 
white  they  were !  how  the  pale  golden  yolk  floated  be- 
neath the  pearly  shell !  Those  were  jolly  days  for  us ;  but 
the  poor  birds  had  to  suffer,  and  few,  indeed,  were  the  nests 
that  escaped  our  prying  search.  There  was  the  cat-bird  in 
the  evergreens,  with  lovely  eggs  of  peacock  blue ;  the  pure  white  treasures 
of  the  swallows  in  the  mud  nests  under  the  barn-yard  eaves ;  the  sky-blue 
beauties  of  the  robin ;  the  brown  speckled  eggs  in  the  sheltered  nest  of 
song-sparrows  on  the  grassy  slope ;  the  dear  little  eggs  of  chippies  in  their 


SPUING. 


41 


horse-hair  bed,  and  in  their  midst  the  insinuated  specimen  of  the  cheeky 
cow-blackbird :  there  were  eggs  of  every  shape  and  hue,  and  we  Icnew  too 
well  where  to  put  our  hand  on  them. 

In  a  ■  flowering  hawthorn  outside  our  window  we  watched  a  loving- 
pair  building  their  pensile  nest  among  the  thorns  and  blossoms.  How 
incessant  was  their  solicitude  for  that  fragile  framework  until  its  strength 


IHL   lUiLC  S    NEST 


was  fully  assured  against  the  tossing  breeze  ! 
Tenderly  and  eagerly  they  helped  each  other  in  the 
_^„e-_^    disposition   of  those   ravellings  of  string  and 
"IV''  '•^■''      strips  of  bark !   he   stopping  every  now  and 
j,^'  then  to  whisper  sweetly  to  his  mate,  as  she, 

-^      with  drooping,  trembling  wings,  put  up  her  little 


-r^ 


open  bill  to  kiss.  Yes,  we  often  saw  this  little 
tender  episode,  as  we  watched  them  through  the  shutters  of  the  half- 
closed  blinds  !  Now  he  flies  away ;  and  the  little  spouse,  thus  left  alone, 
jumps  into  the  nest,  and  we  see  its  mossy  meshes  swell  as  she  fits  the 
deep  hollow  to  her  feathery  breast.  Presently  her  consort  returns,  trail- 
ing along  a  gossamer  of  cobweb,  which  he  throws  around  the  supporting 
thorn,  and  leaves  for  her  to  spread  and  tuck  among  the  crevices.     Again 


he  appears,  with  his  tiny  bill  concealed 
in  a  silvery  puff  of  cotton  from  the  wil- 
low   catkins    in    the    swamp ;    next    he 
brings  a  wisp  of  long  gray  moss ,  now 
a  curly  flake  of  rich  brown  lichen,  or  a 
jagged  square  of  birch  bark,  all  of  which 
aie  laid  against  the  nest,  and  half  cov- 
eied  with  films  of  cobweb.     Once  more 
we  see   his   tiny  form   among  the   haw- 
thorn blossoms  as  he  tugs  a  papery  piece 
of  hornets'  nest  through   the  pink  baiii- 
cade.     This  is  arranged  to  hang  beneath 
as  a  pendant  to  their  floating  fabiic, 
and  the  happy  little  couple  sit  togethei 
upon  a  neighboring  twig  in  twitteimg 
admiration.     And  well  they  may, 
for  a  prettier  nest  than  theirs    \^vg 


BUILDING   THE  NEST. 


SFEING. 


43 


never  hung  upon  a  thorn.  Not  perfect  yet,  it  seems,  however,  for  that 
httle  feminine  eye  has  seen  the  need  of  one  more  touch.  Away  she  flies, 
and  in  a  minute  more  a  downy  feather,  tipped  with  iridescent  green,  is 
adjusted  in  the  cobwebs. 


This  dainty  httle  work  of  art  is  only  one 
of  the  thousands  that  everywhere  are  building  in 
the  blooming  trees  and  thickets.     These  are  the 
supreme    moments   of  the    spring,  consecrated   to 
the  loves  of  bird  and  blossom.     Every  little  winged 
form  that  scarcely  bends  the  twig  has  its  all-con- 
suming passion,  and  every  tree  its  wedding  of  the 

flower.  Out  in  the  orchard  the  apple-trees  are  laden  in  veritable  domes 
of  pink-white  bloom,  as  if  by  the  rare  spectacle  of  a  rosy  fall  of  snow,  and 
from  among  the  dewy  petals  the  army  of  bees  give  forth  their  low,  con- 


IN   THE   APPLE   ORCHARD. 


44  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

tinuous  drone  —  that  sympathetic  chord  in  the  universal  harmony  of 
spring.  How  they  revel  in  that  rich  harvest !  Who  knows  what  sweet 
messages  are  borne  from  flower  to  flower  upon  those  filmy  wings  ? 

On  the  green  slope  beneath,  the  scattered  dandelions  gleam  like  drops 
of  molten  gold  upon  the  velvety  sward,  and  a  lounging  family  group,  in- 
tent upon  that  savory  noonday  relish,  gather  the  basketfuls  of  the  dainty 
plants  for  that  appetizing  "  mess  of  greens."  Often,  while  thus  engaged, 
have  I  stopped  to  watch  the  antics  of  the  festive  bumblebee,  tumbling 
around  in  the  tufted  blossom  —  always  an  amusing  sight.  See  how  he 
rolls  and  wallows  in  the  golden  fringe,  even  standing  on  his  head  and 
kicking  in  his  glee  !  Presently,  with  his  long  black  nose  thrust  deep  into 
the  yellow  puff,  he  stops  to  enjoy  a  quiet  snooze  in  the  luxurious  bed — 
an  endless  sleep,  for  I  generally  took  this  chance  to  put  him  out  of  his 
misery,  preferring,  perhaps,  to  watch  the  robin  hopping  across  the  lawn. 
Now  he  stops,  and  seems  to  listen ;  runs  a  yard  or  so,  and  listens  again, 
and  without  a  sign  of  warning  dips  his  head,  and  pulls  upon  an  unlucky 
angle-worm  that  much  prefers  to  go  the  other  way.  It  is  a  well-known 
fact  that  angle-worms  approach  the  surface  of  their  burrows  at  the  sound 
of  rain-drops  on  the  earth  above.  I  sometimes  wonder  if  the  robin  in  its 
quick  running  stroke  of  foot  intends  to  simulate  that  sound,  and  thus 
decoy  its  prey. 

I  remember  the  wild  tumult  of  a  troop  of  boys  upon  the  hill-side,  track- 
ing tlie  swarming  bees  as  they  whirled  along  in  a  living  tangle  against 
the  sky,  now  loosening  in  their  dizzy  meshes,  now  contracting  in  a  mur- 
muring hum  around  their  queen,  and  finally  settling  on  a  branch  in  a  pen- 
dent bunch  about  her.  So  tame  and  docile,  too  !  seeming  utterly  to  for- 
get their  fiery  javelins  as  they  hung  in  that  brown  filmy  mass  upon  the 
bending  bough  !  "  A  swarm  of  bees  in  May  iz  wuth  a  load  o'  hay."  So 
said  our  neighbor,  as  with  fresh  clean  hive  he  secured  that  prized  equiva- 
lent. Here  they  are  soon  at  home  again,  and  we  see  their  steady  winged 
stream  pouring  out  through  the  little  door  of  their  treasure-house,  and  the 
continual  arrival  of  the  little  dusty  plunderers,  laden  with  their  smuggled 
store  of  honey,  and  their  saddle-bags  replete  with  stolen  gold.  Down  near 
the  brook  they  find  a  land  of  plenty,  literally  flowing  with  honey,  as  the 
luxuriant  drooping  clusters  of  the  locust-trees  yield  their  brimful  nectaries 
to  the  impetuous,  murmuring  swarm.  But  there  is  no  lack  now  of  flowery 
sweets  for  this  buzzing  colony.  On  every  hand  the  meadow-sweets  and 
milkweeds,  tlie  brambles,  and  the  fragrant  creeping-clover  show  their  allur- 


-XS 


^^J# 


ing  colors  in  the  universal 
burst  of  bloom,  and  not  one  es- 
""'0'     capes  its  tender  pillaging. 

Up  in  the  woods  the  gray  has 
turned  to  tender  green.     The  flower- 
ing dog-wood  has  spread  its  la3'ers  of 
creamy    blossoms,  giving    the    signal 
for  the  planting  of  the   corn,  and 
in  the  furrowed  field  we  see  that 
dislocated  "  man  of  straw,"  with 
old  plug  hat  jammed  down    upon 
his    face,  with    wooden    backbone 
sticking  through  his  neck-band,  and 
dirty  thatch  for  a  shirt  bosom — a  mock- 
ing outrage  on  any  crow's  sagacity. 
Those    glittering   strips    of 
Could  you  but  interpret 
the  low  croaking  of  the 
leader    of    that 

sable    gang    in      ^^1^ '  yonder  tree,  you  might 

hear  of  the  ap-     ^^  palling  effect  of  these  precau- 

tions.    I  heard  him  once  as  I  sat  quietly  beneath  a 
forest  tree,  and  in  the  light  of  later  events  I  readily   ^^ 
recalled  his   remarks   upon  the  occasion  :   "  Say,  fel- 
lers !   look  at  that  old  fool  down  there  hana;ins:   out 
those  tins  to  show  us  where  his  corn  is  planted.      Haw 
cawn  !    cawn  !    we'll  go   down  thaw  and  take  a  chaw !"     And  they  did ; 
and  they  perched  upon  that  old  plug  hat,  and  looked  around  for  some- 


tin,  too  ! 


haw !     I  swaw  ! 


t-^^-*.- 


■*f 


^1 


thing  to  get  scared  about. 

A  single  look  at  a  crow 
shows  that  he  has  a  long  head,  and  it 
is  not  all  mouth  either. 

Every  day  now  makes  a  transformation  m 
the  landscape.      The  golden  stars   upon  the 
lawn  are   nearly  all  burnt  out :   we   see   then 
downy    ashes    in   the    grass.       Their    viigm 
flame  is  quenched,  and  naught  remains  but 
those  ethereal  globes  of  smoke  that  use  up 
and  float  away  with  every  breeze.     Where 
is  there  in  all  nature's  marvels  a  more  ex- 
quisite creation  than  this  evanescent  phoe- 
nix of  the  dandelion  ?      Beautiful  m  life, 
it  is  even  more  beautiful  in  death.     And 
now  the  high-grown  grass  is  cloudy  with 
its    puffs,  whose    little    fairy 
parachutes    are    sailing         ^_^ 
everywhere,    over       /        m/J 
mountam-top    and      l|\      )m%  MsiPf 
field.     Here  the    ,r  MS^^^^'r' 
corn  has  ap- 
peared in  lit-     y 
tie     waving 
plumes,  and 

the  horse  and  cultivator  are  seen        w^  ,.y^, 
breaking  up  the  soil  between  the    '"^^'^'V 
rows.     Great  snowy  piles  of  cloud 


Wfi^mf^ 


fim" 


^^1^^-= 


throw    their    sflidino- 


shadows  across  the  patchwork  of  ploughed  fields  and  meadows,  fresh  and 


green  with  winter  wheat, 
or  tinged  with  newly  sprout- 
ing grain.    The  sunbeams  glow 
with    a    summer    warmth,   and 
the   evaporation   of  the   morn- 
ing dews    lifts   the   glistening 
diamonds  from   the   gossamer 
films    among    the    grass,   and 
sends    a    quivering    haze    all 
through  the  air,  in  which  the 
distant  trees  tremble  in  a  soft- 
ened  glimmer.       The    woods 
are   screened   in  dense  foli- 
age, and  through   the   leafy 
canopy  the  merry  birds 
d  sine. 


%i! 


BLUE-FLAGS. 


48  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

The  chickadees  are  here,  and  scarlet  tanagers  gleam  like  living  bits  of  fire 
among  the  tantalizing  leaves.  Pert  little  vireos  hop  inquisitively  about 
you,  and  the  bell  note  of  the  wood-thrush  echoes  from  the  hidden  tree-top 
overhead.  Perhaps,  too,  you  may  chance  upon  a  downy  brood  of  quail 
cuddling  among  the  dry  leaves ;  but,  even  though  you  should,  you  might 
pass  them  by  unnoticed,  except  as  a  mildewed  spot  of  fungus  at  the 
edge  of  a  fallen  log  or  tree-stump,  perhaps.  The  loamy  ground  is  shaded 
knee-deep  with  rank  growth  of  wood  plants.  The  mossy,  speckled  rock 
is  set  in  a  fringe  of  ferns.  Palmate  sprays  of  ginseng  spread  in  mid-air 
a  luxurious  carpet  of  intermingled  leaves,  interspersed  with  yellow  spikes 
of  loosestrife  and  pale  lilac  blooms  of  crane's-bill ;  and  the  poison-ivy, 
creeping  like  a  snake  around  that  marbled  beech,  has  screened  its  hairy 
trunk  beneath  its  three-cleft  shiny  leaves.  The  mountain-laurel,  with  its 
deep  green  foliage  and  showy  clusters,  peers  above  that  rocky  crag;  and 
in  the  bog  near  by  a  thicket  of  wild  azalea  is  crowned  with  a  profusion 
of  pink  blossoms. 

Out  in  the  swamp  meadow  the  tall  clumps  of  boneset  show  their  dull 
white  crests,  and  the  blue  flowers  of  the  flag,  the  mint,  and  pickerel  weed 
deck  the  borders  of  the  lily  pond.  The  waddling  geese  let  off  their 
shrieking  calliopes  as  they  sail  out  into  the  stream,  or  browse  with  nod- 
ding twitch  along  the  grassy  bank.  Swarms  of  yellow  butterflies  disgrace 
their  kind  as  they  huddle  around  the  greenish  mud-holes,  and  we  hear 
on  every  side  the  "z-zip,  z-zip,"  amidst  the  din  of  a  thousand  crickets  and 
singing  locusts  among  the  reeds  and  rushes.  The  meadows  roll  and 
swell  in  billowy  waves,  bearing  like  a  white -speckled  foam  upon  their 
crests  a  sea  of  daisies,  with  here  and  there  a  floating  patch  of  crimson 
clover,  or  a  golden  haze  of  butter-cups.  Rising  suddenly  from  the  tall 
grass  near  by,  the  gushing  brimful  bobolink  crowds  a  half- hour's  song 
into  a  brief  pell-mell  rapture,  beating  time  in  mid-air  with  his  trembling 
wings,  and  alighting  on  the  tall  fence-rail  to  regain  his  breath.  A  coy 
meadow -lark  shows  his  yellow -breast  and  crescent  above  the  windrow 
yonder,  and  we  hear  the  ringing  beats  of  whetted  scythes,  and  see  the 
mowei's  cut  their  circling  swath. 

Mowing !  Why,  how  is  this  }  This  surely  is  not  Spring.  But  even 
thus  the  Springtime  leads  us  into  Summer.  No  eye  can  mark  the  soft 
transition,  and  ere  we  are  aware  the  sweet  fragrance  of  the  new-mown 
hay  breathes  its  perfumed  whisper,  "  Behold,  the  Spring  has  fled  !" 


Summer. 


oreneral     bustle 

for    satchels     and 

bundles,  and   the   car 

is  soon  almost  without 

a  passenger ;   and,  in- 
deed, it  would  really  seem  as  though  the  whole  train  had  landed  its  entire 
human  burden  upon  this  platform  ;  for  Hometown  is  a  popular  place,  and 


54  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

every  Saturday  evening  brings  just  such  an  exodus  as  this :  Husbands 
and  fathers  who  fly  from  the  hot  and  crowded  city  for  a  Sunday  of  quiet 
and  content  with  their  families,  who  year  after  year  have  found  a  refuge  of 
peace  and  comfort  in  tliis  charming  New  England  town.  Where  is  it  ? 
Talk  with  almost  any  one  familiar  with  the  picturesque  boroughs  of  the 
Housatonic,  and  your  curiosity  will  be  gratified,  for  this  village  will  be 
among  the  first  to  be  described. 

From  the  platform  of  the  car  we  step  into  the  midst  of  a  motley 
assemblage,  rustic  peasantry  and  fashionable  aristocracy  intermingled. 
Anxious  and  eager  faces  meet  you  at  every  turn.  For  a  few  minutes  the 
air  fairly  rings  with  kisses,  as  children  welcome  fathers,  and  fathers  chil- 
dren. Strange  vehicles  crowd  the  depot — vehicles  of  all  sizes  and  descrip- 
tions, from  the  veritable  "  one-hoss  shay  "  to  the  dainty  basket-phaeton  of 
fashion.  One  by  one  the  merry  loads  depart,  while  I,  a  pilgrim  to  my  old 
home,  stand  almost  unrecognized  by  the  familiar  faces  around  me.  Lean- 
ing up  against  the  porch  near  by,  stands  a  character  which,  once  seen, 
could  never  be  forgotten.  His  face  is  turned  from  me,  but  the  old  straw 
hat  I  recognize  as  the  hat  of  ten  years  ago,  with  brim  pulled  down  to  a 
slope  in  front,  and  pushed  up  vertically  behind,  and  the  identical  hole  in 
the  side  with  the  long  hair  sticking  through.  Yes,  there  he  stands — 
Amos  Shoopegg.  I  step  up  to  him  and  lay  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
With  creditable  skill  he  unwinds  the  twist  of  his  intricate  legs,  and  with 
an  inquiring  gaze  turns  his  good-natured  face  toward  me. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  don't  remember  me,  Shoop  ?" 

With  an  expression  of  surprise  he  raises  both  his  arms.  "  Wa'al,  thar ! 
I  swaiou !  I  didn't  cal'late  on  runnin'  agin  yeu.  I  was  jes  drivin'  hum 
from  taown-meetin',  an'  thought  as  haow  I'd  take  a  turn  in,  jest  out  o'  cur'- 
osity.  Wa'al,  naow,  it's  pesky  good  to  see  yeu  agin  arter  sech  a  long  spell. 
I  didn't  rerc/nize  ye  at  fust,  but  I  swan  when  ye  began  a-talkin',  that  was 
enuf  fer  me.  Hello !  fetched  yer  woman  'long  tew,  hey  ?  Haow  air  yeu, 
ma'am }  hope  ye'er  perty  tol'ble.  Don't  see  but  what  yeu  look's  nateral's 
ever ;  but  yer  man  here,  I  declar  for't,  he  got  the  best  on  me  at  fust ;"  and 
after  having  thus  delivered  himself,  he  swallowed  up  our  hands  in  his 
ample  fists. 

"  Yes,  Shoop,  I  thought  I'd  just  run  up  to  the  old  home  for  a  few 
days." 

"Wa'al,  I  swar!  I'm  tarnal  glad  to  see  ye,  and  that's  a  fact.  Anybody 
cum  up  arter  ye  1     No  ?     Well,  then,  s'posin'  ye  jest  highst  into  my  team." 


SUMMER.  55 

So  saying,  he  unhitched  a  corrugated  shackle -jointed  steed,  and  backed 
around  his  indescribable  impromptu  covered  wagon — a  sort  of  a  hybrid 
between  a  "  one-hoss  shay  "  and  a  truck. 

"  'Tain't  much  of  a  kerridge  fer  city  folks  to  ride  in,  that's  a  fact,"  he 
continued,  "  but  I  cal'late  it's  a  little  better'n  shinnin'  it."  After  some  lit- 
tle manoeuvring  in  the  way  of  climbing  over  the  front  seat,  we  were  soon 
wedged  in  the  narrow  compass,  and,  with  an  old  horse-blanket  over  our 
knees,  we  went  rattling  down  the  hill  toward  the  village  and  home  of  my 
boyhood. 

Years  have  passed  since  those  days  when,  as  a  united  family,  we  dwelt 
under  that  old  roof;  but  those  who  once  were  children  are  now  men  and 
women,  with  divided  interests  and  individual  homes.  The  old  New  Eng- 
land mansion  is  now  a  homestead  only  in  name,  known  so  only  in  recol- 
lections of  the  past  and  the  possibilities  of  the  future. 

"  Wa'al,  thar's  the  old  house,"  presently  exclaimed  Amos,  as  we  neared 
the  brow  of  a  declivity  looking  down  into  the  valley  below.  "  Don't  look 
quite  so  spruce  as't  did  in  the  old  times,  but  Warner's  a  good  keerful  ten- 
ant, 'tain't  no  use  talkin'.  I  cal'late  yen  might  dig  a  pleggy  long  spell 
afore  yeu  could  git  another  feller  like  him  in  this  'ere  patch." 

In  the  vale  below,  in  its  nest  of  old  maples  and  elms,  almost  screened 
from  view  by  the  foliage,  we  look  upon  the  familiar  outlines  of  the  old 
mansion,  its  diamond  window  in  the  gable  peering  through  the  branches 
at  us.  "  Skedup !"  cried  Amos,  as  he  urged  his  pet  nag  into  a  jog-trot 
down  the  hill,  through  the  main  street  of  the  town.  The  long  fence  in 
front  of  the  homestead  is  soon  reached,  a  sharp  turn  into  the  drive,  a 
"  Whoa,  January !"  and  we  are  extricated  from  the  wagon. 

"Wa'al,  I'll  leave  ye  naow.  I  guess  ye  kin  find  yer  way  around," 
said  Shoop,  as  with  one  outlandish  geometrical  stride  he  lifted  himself 
into  the  wagon.  Cordially  greeted  by  our  hostess,  with  repeated  urgings 
to  "  make  ourselves  at  home,"  we  were  shown  to  our  room.  The  house, 
though  clad  in  a  new  dress,  still  retained  the  same  hospitable  and  cosy 
look  as  of  old. 

Hometown,  owing  to  some  early  local  faction,  is  divided  into  two  sec- 
tions, forming  two  distinct  towns.  One,  Newborough,  a  hill-top  hamlet, 
with  its  picturesque  long  street,  a  hundred  feet  in  width,  and  shaded  with 
great  weeping  elms  that  almost  meet  overhead ;  and  the  other,  Hometown 
proper,  a  picturesque  little  village  in  the  valley,  cuddling  close  around  the 
foot  of  a  precipitous  bluff,  known  as  Mount  Pisgah.     A  mile's  distance 


56 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


separates  the  two  centres.  The  old  homestead  is  situated  in  the  heart  of 
Hometown,  fronting  on  the  main  street.  The  house  itself  is  a  series  of 
after -thoughts,  wing  after  wing  and  gable  after  gable  having  clustered 
around  the  old  nucleus,  as  the  growth  of  new  generations  necessitated 
increased  accommodation.     Its  outward  aspect  is  rather  modern,  but  the 


OLD  HOMESTEAD  AND  GARRET. 


interior,  with  its  broad  open  fireplaces,  and  accessaries  in  the  shape  of 
cranes  and  fire-dogs,  is  rich  with  all  the  features  of  typical  New  England ; 
and  the  two  gables  of  the  main  roof  enclose  the  dearest  old  garret  imagi- 
nable— at  present  an  asylum  for  the  quaint  possessions  of  antique  furniture 
and  bric-a-brac,  removed  from  their  accustomed  quarters  on  the  advent  of 


SUMMER.  ■        57 

the  new  host.  It  is  to  this  sanctuary  that  my  footsteps  first  lead  me,  and, 
with  a  longing  that  will  not  be  withstood,  I  find  myself  in  front  of  the 
great  white  door.  I  lift  the  latch ;  a  cool  pungent  odor  of  oak  wood  greets 
me  as  I  ascend  the  steep  stairs — an  odor  that  awakens,  like  magic,  a  hun- 
dred fancies,  and  recalls  a  host  of  memories  long  forgotten.  Every  stair 
seems  to  creak  a  welcome,  as  when,  on  the  rainy  days  of  long  ago,  we 
sought  the  cosy  refuge  to  hear  the  patter  on  the  roof,  or  to  nestle  in  the 
dark,  obscure  corners  in  our  childish  games.  At  the  head  of  the  stairs 
rises  the  ancient  chimney,  cleft  in  twain  at  the  foot,  with  the  quaint  little 
cuddy  between.  Above  me  stretch  the  great  beams  of  oak,  like  iron  in 
their  hardness.  Yonder  is  the  queer  old  diamond  window  looking  out 
upon  the  village  church,  its  panes  half  obscured  by  the  dusty  maze  of 
webs.  To  the  left,  in  a  shadowy  corner,  stands  the  antiquated  wheel — a 
relic  of  past  generations.  Long  gray  cobwebs  festoon  the  rafters  over- 
head, and  the  low  buzzing  of  a  wasp  betrays  its  mud  nest  in  the  gable 
above.  A  sense  of  sadness  steals  over  me  as  I  sit  gazing  into  this  still 
chamber.  On  every  side  are  mementos  of  a  happy  past,  and  all,  though 
mute,  speaking  to  me  in  a  language  whose  power  stirs  the  depths  of  my 
soul.  Wherever  the  eye  may  turn,  it  meets  with  a  silent  greeting  from 
an  old  friend,  and  the  whole  shrouded  in  a  weird  gloom  that  lends  to 
the  most  common  object  an  air  of  melancholy  mystery.  And  yet  it  is 
only  a  garret.  There  are  some,  no  doubt,  for  whom  this  word  finds  its 
fitting  synonyme  in  the  dictionary,  but  there  are  others  to  whom  it  sings 
a  poem  of  infinite  sweetness. 

Looking  through  the  dingy  window  between  the  maple  boughs,  my 
eye  extends  over  lawn  and  shrubberies,  three  acres  in  extent  —  a  little 
park,  overrun  with  paths  in  every  direction,  through  ancient  orchard  and 
embowered  dells,  while  far  beyond  are  glimpses  of  the  wooded  knolls, 
the  winding  brook,  and  meadows  dotted  with  waving  willows,  and  farther 
still  the  ample  undulating  farm. 

It  is  in  such  a  place  as  this  that  I  have  sought  recreation  and  change 
of  scene.  My  wife  and  I  have  run  away  from  the  city  for  a  month  or  so. 
A  vacation  we  call  it ;  but  to  an  artist  such  a  thing  is  rarely  known  in  its 
ordinary  sense,  and  often,  indeed,  it  means  an  increase  of  labor  rather  than 
a  respite.  My  first  week,  however,  I  had  consecrated  to  luxurious  idle- 
ness. Together  we  wandered  through  the  old  familiar  rambles  where  as 
boy  and  girl  in  earlier  days  we  had  been  so  oft  together.  Day  after  day 
found  us  in  some  new  retreat.  There  were  dark  cool  nooks  by  sheltered 
s 


in      iWTT 


I   I     I     I  1     1    ii  II       II      r  r 


1 1  li!llll:l:!l>'liiii!iii;i|i 


llllll' 


T" 


^i      .  --■■-■-■- 

■'^^      streams,  spicy  groves  of        ^ 
pine  and  spruce,  wooded 
slopes    and    rocky    dells,  and 
meadows  rich  with  sum- 
mer  bloom,  where    idle 
butterflies  flitted  lazily 
on  the  wing;  where  mead- 
ow  lilies    nodded   in   billow- 
ing fields,  and  the  daisies  and 
red  clover  waved  about  our 
knees  half  screened  in  feath- 
ery   purple    grasses    that 
spread  their  cloudy 


\ 


AMONG   THE   GRASSES. 


SUMMER.  59 

mist  all  through  the  blossoming  maze.  We  heard  the  music  of  the 
scythe,  and,  sitting  in  the  deep  cool  grass  beneath  the  maple  shade,  we 
watched  the  circling  motion  of  the  mowers  in  the  field — saw  the  forkfuls 
of  the  hay  tossed  in  the  drying  sun,  and  breathed  the  perfumed  air  that 
floated  from  the  windrows.  We  sauntered  by  the  meadow  brook  where 
willows  gleamed  along  the  bank,  and  overhanging  alders  threw  their  som- 
bre shadows  in  the  quiet  pools  :  where  the  ground-nut,  and  the  meadow- 
rue,  and  the  creeping  madder  fringed  the  tangled  brink,  and  every  foot- 
step started  up  some  agile  frog  that  plunged  into  the  unseen  water.  We 
stood  where  rippling  shallows  gurgled  under  festooned  canopies  of  fox- 
grape,  and  the  leaning  linden-trees  shut  out  the  sky  o'erhead  and  inter- 
twined their  drooping  branches  above  the  gliding  current.  Here,  too, 
the  weather-beaten  crossing-pole  makes  its  tottering  span  across  the 
stream,  and  deep  down  beneath  the  bank  the  rainbow-tinted  sunfish  floats 
on  filmy  fins  above  his  yellow  bed  of  gravel,  and  we  catch  a  flashing 
gleam  of  a  silvery  dace  or  minnow  turning  in  the  water. 

Now  we  confront  a  rude  slab  fence,  an  ancient  landmark,  that  termi- 
nates its  length  at  the  edge  of  the  stream,  where  its  gray  and  crumbling 
boards  are  secured  with  rusty  nails  against  the  trunk  of  a  tall  button- 
wood-tree.  A  loosened  slab  is  easily  found,  and  we  are  soon  upon  the 
other  side ;  and  after  picking  our  way  through  a  forest  of  bush-elders,  we 
emerge  upon  an  open  lot  of  low  flat  pasture-land,  known  always  as  the 
"  old  swamp  meadow."  No  other  five  acres  on  the  face  of  the  earth  are 
so  dear  to  me  as  this  neglected  field.  I  know  its  every  rise  and  fall  of 
ground,  its  every  bog,  and  its  lush  greenness  is  refreshing  even  to  the 
thought. 

It  is  a  luxuriant  garden  of  all  manner  of  succulent  and  juicy  vegeta- 
tion ;  an  outbursting  extravagance  of  plant  life  of  almost  tropical  exuber- 
ance. All  New  England's  most  majestic  and  ornamental  flora  seem  con- 
gregated in  its  congenial  soil ;  and  even  when  a  boy  I  learned  to  know 
and  love  them  all,  and  even  call  them  by  their  names. 

Here  are  towering  stems  of  iron-weed  lifting  high  their  scattered  pur- 
ple crowns,  and  in  their  midst  the  woolly  clumps  of  boneset,  its  white 
flowered  cushions  intermingling  with  the  dense  pink  tufts  of  thorough- 
wort. 

On  every  side  we  overlook  whole  patches  of  these  splendid  blossoms, 
with  their  crests  closely  crowded  in  a  mosaic  of  pink  and  white.  And 
here's   a   bed   of   peppermint   and   spearmint,  interspersed  with    flaming 


6o 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


spikes  of  cardinal  lobelia ;  and  here  a  lusty  plant  of  Indian  mallow,  en- 
tangled in  a  maze  of  gold-thread  and  smart-weed.  Here  are  massive  bur- 
docks six  feet  high,  and  great  trees  of  jimson-weed,  with  their  large  spiral 
flowers  and  thorny  pods. 

High  fronds  of  chain-fern  rise  up  on  every  side  from  a  jungle  of  bur- 
marigolds  and  clotburs,  and  tear-thumbs, 
x\<  ,,,         ,./f}  with  their  saw-toothed  stems  and 

'^i.Vi\     siu'^-'^''^  '-''        tmy  bunches  of  pink  blossoms. 

No  mch  of  ground 
in  the  old  swamp  lot 
but  which  does  its  ten- 
fold duty  ,   and  what  it 


EVEN-TIDE. 


lacks  in  quality  of  produce  it  amply  makes  up  in  quantity.  Even  a 
neighboring  bed  of  clean-washed  gravel  is  overrun  with  creeping  mallow, 
with  its  rounded  leaves  and  little  "  cheeses  "  down  among  their  shadows. 

Farther  on  we  see  the  lily-pond,  with  its  surrounding  swamp  and  its 
legion  of  crowded  water-plants.     Here  are  rank,  massive  beds  of  swamp- 


SUMMER.  6l 

cabbage,  and  lofty  cat-tails  by  the  thousand  among  the  bristling  bogs  of 
tussock-sedge  and  bulrush.  Here  are  calamus  patches,  and  alder  thickets, 
and  sedges  without  number ;  and  the  prickly  carex  and  blue-flag  abound 
on  every  side.  There  are  galingales  and  reeds,  and  tall  and  graceful 
rushes,  turtle -head  arid  jointed  scouring  grass,  and  horse-tail,  besides  a 
host  of  other  old  acquaintances,  whose  faces  are  familiar,  but  whose  names 
I  never  knew.  But  they  were  all  my  friends  in  boyhood.  I  knew  them 
in  the  bud  and  in  the  blossom,  and  even  in  their  winter  skeletons,  brown 
and  broken  in  the  snow.  Near  by  there  is  a  ditch  :  you  never  would 
know  it,  for  it  is  completely  hidden  from  view  beneath  an  interlacing 
growth  of  jewel-weed.  But  see  that  gorgeous  mass  of  deep  scarlet  that 
floods  the  farther  bank  !  Nowhere  within  a  circuit  of  miles  around  is 
there  such  a  regal  display  of  cardinal  flowers  as  this :  skirting  the  borders 
of  the  ditch  for  rods  and  rods,  clustering  about  a  ruined,  tumbling  fence, 
whose  moss-grown  pickets  are  almost  hidden  in  the  dense  profusion  of 
bloom. 

Then  there  is  its  airy  companion,  the  "  touch-me-not,"  with  its  trans- 
lucent, juicy  stem,  and  its  queer  little  golden  flowers  with  spotted  throats 
— the  "  jewel-weed  "  we  used  to  call  it.  I  know  not  why,  unless  from  the 
magic  of  its  leaf,  which,  when  held  beneath  the  water,  was  transformed  to 
iridescent  frosted  silver.  We  all  remember  its  sensitive,  jumping  seed- 
pods,  that  burst  even  at  our  approach  for  fear  that  we  should  touch 
them  ;  but  no  one  can  fully  appreciate  the  beauty  of  the  plant  who  has 
not  seen  its  silvery  leaf  beneath  the  water.  Here  it  justifies  its  name, 
for  it  is  indeed  a  jewel. 

How  often  in  those  olden  times  have  I  lain  down  among  these  bul- 
rushes and  sedges  near  the  lily  pond,  and  listened  to  the  buzzing  songs  of 
the  crickets  and  the  tiny  katydids  that  swarmed  the  growth  about  me, 
and  filled  the  air  with  their  incessant  din.  I  remember  the  little  colony 
of  ants  that  picked  their  way  among  the  rushes ;  that  gauzy  dragon-fly  too, 
that  circled  and  dodged  about  the  water's  edge,  now  skimming  close  upon 
the  surface,  now  darting  out  of  sight,  or  perhaps  alighting  on  an  overhang- 
ing sedge,  as  motionless  as  a  mounted  specimen,  with  wings  aslant  and 
fully  spread.  "  Devil's  darning-needles  "  they  were  called.  The  devil  may 
well  be  proud  of  them ;  for  darning-needles  of  such  precious  metals  and 
such  exquisite  design  are  rare  indeed.  They  were  of  several  sizes  too. 
Some  were  large,  and  flashed  the  azure  of  the  sapphire ;  others  fluttered 
by  with  smoky,  pearly  wings,  and  slender  bodies  glittering  in  the  light  like 

8* 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


animated  emeralds :  and  another  I  well  remember, 
a  little  airy  thing,  with  a  glistening  sunbeam  for 
a  body,  and  wings  of  tiny  rainbows. 

I  remember  how  I  watched  the  dis- 
'^      turbed    motion    of  the    arrow-heads    out 
in    the    water,  as    the    cautious    turtles 
worked    their    way    among    them,   and 
crawled  out  upon  the  stump  close  by. 
Here  they  huddled  together,  a  dozen 
Vi$^^J'\       or  more,  with   heads  erect,  and  turn- 
ing  from    side    to    side    as    they   sur- 
veyed the  sur- 


rounding  car-  /       ^' 
pet    of    lily- 
pads,  or  listened  to  the  bass- 
drum  chorus  of  the  great  green  bull- 
frogs among  the  pickerel-weed  ;  and 
when  I  jumped  and  yelled  at  them, 
what    a    rolling,   sprawling,   splash- 
ing in  the   mud  !     It  faiily  makes 
me  laugh  to  think  of  it.     But  there 
is  hardly  a  leaf  or  wisp  of  _;k><n  ■■ 

grass  in  this  old  swamp  lot 
but  what  brings  back  some  old  association  or  pleasant  reminiscence. 


For  a  week   thus   we   idled,  now 
on  the  mountain,  now  in  the  meadow, 
vhile   I,  with  my  sketch-book  and  col- 
lecting-box, either    whiled    away    the 
hours  with  my  pencil,  or  left  the  un- 
finished work  to  pursue  the  tan- 
talizing butterfly,  or    search   for 
unsuspecting  caterpillars  among  the 
weeds  and  bushes. 

On   a    sprig   of  black    alder    I 
found  one — the   same   little  fellow 
as  of  old,  afflicted  with  the  peculi- 
arities   of   all   his   progenitors.     We 
used    to    call    him  "  Professor  Wig- 
gler,"   owing    to    an   hereditary   ner- 
vous habit  of  wiggling  his   head  from   side  to  side  when  not  otherwise 


64 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


employed.     To  this  little  humpbacked  creature  I  am  indebted  for  a  great 
deal  of  past  amusement.     Distinctly  I  remember  the  whack-whack-whack 

on  the  inside  of  the  old  pasteboard  box 
as  the  captive  pets  threatened  to  dash 
out  their  brains  in  their  demon- 
strations at 'my  approach.     Pro- 
fessor Wiggler  is  really  a  most 
remarkable     in- 


SOME   ART   CONNOISSEURS 


sect,  as  one  might  readily  imagine  from  his  sci-      ^  ~ 
entitle  name,  for  in  learned  circles  this  individual 

is  known  as  Mr.  Gramatophora  Trisignata.     He  has  many  strange  eccen- 
tricities.    At  each  moult  of  the  skin  he  retains  the  shell  of  his  former 


\ 


\ 

head  on  a  lona;  vertical  filament. 
Two  or  three  thus  accumulate,  and, 
as  a  consequence,  in  his  maturer  years 
he  looks  up  to  the  head  he  wore  when 
he   was   a  youngster,  and  ponders    on 
the  flight  of  time  and  the  hollowness  of 
earthly  things,  or  perhaps  congratulates  him- 
self on  the  increased  contents  of  his  present  shell. 
When  fully  grown,  he  stops  eating,  and  goes  into 
a   new   business.      Selecting   a  suitable   twig,  he 
Q^naws   a   cylindrical  hole    to   its   centre    and  fol- 
lows the  pith,  now  and  then  backing  out  of 
the  tunnel,  and  dropping  the  excavated  ma- 
terial in  the  form  of  little  balls  of  saw- 
dust.    At  length  he  emerges  from  the 
hollow,  and  again   drawing  himself  in 
backward,  spins    a    silken   disk    across 
the  opening,  and  tints  it  with  the   col- 
or of  the  surrounding  bark.     Here  he 
ends    the    winter,   and    comes    out   in    a 
new  spring  suit  in  the  following 
^^-'l^'  May.      Only   recently   I   had 

-^Jsiy^r  ^       in   my  possession   several  of 
these    twiars    with    their    en- 
closed  caterpillars,  and  in  ev- 
ery one  the   color  of  the   silken  lid  so  closely  matched  the  tint  of  the 


PROFESSOR   WIGGLER. 


66  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

adjacent  bark,  although  different  in  each,  that  several  of  my  friends,  even 
with  the  most  careful  scrutiny,  failed  to  detect  the  deceptive  spot. 
Whether  the  result  of  chance  or  of  the  instincts  of  the  insect,  I  do  not 
know;  but  certain  it  is  that  he  paints  with  different  colors  under  varying 
circumstances. 

Insect-hunting  had  always  been  a  passion  with  me.  Large  collec- 
tions of  moths  and  butterflies  had  many  times  accumulated  under  my 
hands,  only  to  meet  destruction  through  boyish  inexperience  ;  and  even 
in  childhood  the  love  for  the  insect  and  the  passion  for  the  pencil  strove 
hard  for  the  ascendency,  and  were  only  reconciled  by  a  combination 
which  filled  my  sketch-book  with  studies  of  insect  life. 

There  was  one  inhabitant  of  our  fields  which  had  always  been  to  me 
a  never-failing  source  of  entertainment.  There  he  is,  the  gilded  tyrant. 
I  see  him  now  swinging  to  and  fro  on  his  glistening  nest  of  silken 
threads,  his  golden  yellow  form  glowing  in  bold  relief  against  the  dark 
recess  in  the  brambles.  My  sketch  is  left  in  the  grass,  and  I  am  soon 
seated  in  front  of  the  gossamer  maze.  A  festive  grasshopper  jumps  up 
into  my  face,  and  makes  a  carom  on  the  web.  With  a  spasmodic  snap 
of  one  hind  leg  he  extricates  it  from  its  entanglement,  and  in  another 
instant  would  fall  from  the  meshes ;  but  the  agile  spider  is  too  quick  for 
him.  With  a  movement  so  swift  as  almost  to  elude  the  eye,  he  draws 
from  his  body  a  silver  cloud  of  floss,  and  with  his  long  hind  legs  throws 
it  over  his  captive.  The  head  and  tail  of  the  grasshopper  are  now  fur- 
ther secured,  after  which  the  spider  carefully  straddles  around  the  strug- 
gling insect,  and  bites  off  the  other  radiating  webs  in  close  proximity. 
The  unlucky  prey  now  hangs  suspended  across  the  opening.  With 
business-like  coolness  his  tormentor  dangles  himself  from  the  edge  of 
the  torn  web,  and  another  cataract  of  glistening  floss  is  thrown  up  and 
attached  to  the  under  side  of  the  prisoner,  after  which  he  is  turned  round 
and  round,  as  if  on  a  spit.  The  stream  of  floss  is  carried  from  head  to 
foot,  and  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  describe  it  the  victim  is  wrapped 
in  a  silken  winding-sheet,  and  soon  meets  his  death  from  the  poisoned 
fangs  of  his  captor.  Here  is  but  one  of  the  thousands  of  tragedies  that 
are  taking  place  every  hour  of  the  day  in  our  fields.  While  deeply  inter- 
ested in  the  closing  scenes  of  this  one,  I  suddenly  become  aware  of  a 
shadow  passing  over  the  bushes.  I  turn  my  head,  and  meet  the  puzzled 
and  pleasant  gaze  of  Amos  Shoopegg,  as  he  stands  there,  hands  in  pock- 
ets, and  milk-pail  swinging  from  his  wrist. 


SUMMER. 


t'J 


"  Wa'al,  thar,"  he  exclaims, 
banging  down  one  brawny  fist 
on  his  uplifted  knee.     "  Buggin' 
agin,  I  swaow !     Hain't  yeu  got      /^^ 
over  thet  yit  ?     What  yeu   kin       t/f     V 
find  so  mighty  fine  in  them  'eie 
bugs  beats  me." 

"  Amos,"  I  replied,  "  there's  a 
great  deal   more   in   these  bugs 
than  you  imagine." 

"A    pleggy    sight,  I 
suppose,"   he     resumed. 
^         '  What  specie   o'  critter 
ye  got  hold  on 


THE   TYRANT   OF  THE   FIELDS. 


68    ,  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

ward  his  fringed  and  weather-beaten  neck,  and  peered  over  the  brambles. 
"  What  is't  ye  got  thar — straddle-bug  ?"  He  came  still  nearer,  and  looked 
at  the  spider.  "  Wa'al,  darn  my  pictur  ef  'tain't  an  old  yeller-belly  !  P'r'aps 
you  don't  know  that  them  critters  is  pizen.  Why,  Eben  Sanford's  gal 
got  all  chawed  up  by  one  on  'em.  Great  Sneezer!"  he  exclaimed,  taking 
three  or  four  strides  backward,  with  both  hands  uplifted.  I  had  merely 
raised  my  hand  and  gently  smoothed  the  spider. 

"Wa'al,"  he  continued,  "  yeu  kin  rub  'em  daown  ef  yeu  pleze ;  but  fer 
my  part,  I'd  ruther  keep  off  abaout  a  good  spittin'  distance  " — which  was 
the  Shoopegg  way  of  expressing  a  length  of  about  fifteen  feet.  Amos 
was  crossing  lots  for  his  "  caow,"  he  said ;  but  in  spite  of  his  plea  that  the 
"  old  heiffer  "  was  "  bellerin'  "  like  "  Sam  Hill,"  and  was  "  gittin'  'tarnal  on- 
easy,"  I  made  him  tarry  sufficiently  long  to  enable  me  to  send  him  off  a 
wiser  man. 

Amos  Shoopegg  is  a  type  of  a  large  class  of  the  native  element  of 
Hometown.  Of  course,  "  Shoopegg "  is  not  his  actual  name.  In  the 
long  line  of  his  prided  Puritan  ancestry  no  one  ever  bore  it  before  him. 
This  is  only  an  affectionate  epithet  given  him  by  the  village  boys  full 
twenty  years  ago,  and  it  has  stuck  to  him  closer  than  a  brother  ever  since, 
as  those  festive  surnames  always  do.  Nominally,  Amos  was  a  farmer. 
In  summer  he  was  one  in  fact,  and  could  swing  off  as  pretty  a  swath  in 
haying  as  any  man  in  town.  But  in  the  winter  he  changed  his  vocation, 
and  became  a  disciple  of  the  "waxed -end."  All  day  long  he  could  be 
seen,  closeted  with  a  little  red-hot  stove,  plying  his  trade  in  his  small, 
square  shop,  up  near  the  old  red  school -house.  Here  he  pounded  on 
the  big  lapstone  on  his  knees,  oi',  with  strap  and  foot -stick  in  position, 
punched  and  tugged  around  the  edge  of  those  marvellous  brogans.  He 
made  slings  and  leather  "  suckers  "  for  the  boys,  and  furnished  them  with 
all  the  black-wax  they  could  chew — or  stow-away,  to  stick  between  the 
lining  of  their  pockets.  And  the  huge  wooden  shoe -pegs  that  he  drove 
beneath  his  hammer  were  a  sight  to  behold.  The  man  who  used  his 
"  cheap  line  of  goods  "  might  verily  say  he  walked  upon  a  wood-pile. 

So  they  dubbed  him  "  Shoe-peg,"  or  "  Shoop  "  for  brevity.  There  are 
others  among  his  neighbors  who  would  furnish  an  inexhaustible  source  of 
study  to  the  student  of  character.  There's  old  Rufus  Fairchild,  known 
as  "  Roof,"  a  rotund  specimen  of  rural  jollity,  his  round  face  set  in  dishev- 
elled locks  f)f  gray,  with  a  twinkle  in  liis  eye  and  a  good  word  for  every- 
body.    y\nd  there's  h'atlTjr  Tomlinson,  who  keeps  tlvj  post-office  down  by 


SUMMER.  69 

the  dam,  as  genial  an  old  fellow  as  ever  wrapped  up  his  throat  in  a  white 
stock.  And  I  might  almost  continue  the  list  indefinitely.  But  there  is 
one  I  must  especially  mention  ;  and,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  he  really 
should  have  headed  the  list,  for  he  stands  alone  —  or  at  least  he  does 
sometimes.  If  you  are  in  search  of  the  embodiment  of  typical  Erin,  you 
need  go  no  farther ;  here  he  is.  This  individual  represents  another 
nationality  which  swells  the  population  of  Hometown — the  hard-working 
laborers  who  toil  in  the  great  factoiy  down  in  the  glen,  called  "  Satan's 
Misery."  The  above  personage  is  one  of  the  best-hearted  creatures  in 
the  town ;  but  it  is  the  old  story,  and  the  world  to  him  is  enclosed  in 
the  compass  of  a  barrel-hoop.  When  last  I  saw  him  he  was  in  an  evi- 
dent decline,  but  as  I  put  my  finger  on  his  wrist  I  could  still  feel  the 
pulsations  of  the  whiskey  coursing  through  his  veins. 

"  Look  here,  my  good  fellow,"  I  said  to  him  one  day,  "  why  don't  you 
taper  off  a  little  ?  If  you  keep  on  in  this  way,  you'll  be  in  your  grave  in 
less  than  a  month.     How  would  you  like  that  ?" 

"  Arrah,  begorra,"  he  replied,  with  a  look  of  hopeful  resignation,  "  if  I 
cud  awnly  be  shure  o'  me  gude  skvare  dthrink  in  the  other  wurrld,  oi 
wudn't  moind." 

The  record  of  a  single  evening  spent  in  the  village  store,  with  its 
rural  jargon  and  homespun  yarns,  its  odd  vernacular  and  rustic  gossip, 
would  make  a  volume  as  rare  and  unique  as  the  characters  it  would 
depict. 

The  store  itself  is  a  matchless  picture  in  its  way,  and  for  variety  in 
accessory  is  as  rich  as  could  be  wished  for.  The  low,  murky  ceiling,  hung 
with  all  manner  of  earthly  goods — scythes  and  rakes,  boots  and  pails,  in 
pendulous  array ;  bottles  and  boxes,  brooms  and  breast-pins,  are  here — in 
short,  everything  that  heart  could  wish  or  thought  suggest,  from  Speckled 
calicoes  to  seven-cent  sugar,  or  from  a  three-tined  fork  to  a  goose-yoke. 
Evening  after  evening,  for  an  hour  or  so,  I  was  tempted  thither,  until  I 
found  the  week  had  gone.  Sunday  came  again  —  Sunday  in  New  Eng- 
land. The  old  bell  swung  on  its  wheel  in  the  belfry,  ringing  out  its  call 
to  devotion,  and  ere  the  echo  had  died  in  the  recesses  of  the  mountain 
beyond  the  still  atmosphere  reverberated  with  an  answering  peal  from 
the  little  sister  church  in  the  valley  below,  as  the  scattered  groups  with 
strolling  steps  wend  their  way  to  "  meeting,"  and  the  gay  loads  from 
Newborough  go  flitting  by  on  the  accustomed  Sunday  drive. 

Monday  dawned  on   Hometown.     It  found  me  ujd  and  doing.     I  had 


70 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


enjoyed  one  week  of  glorious  loafing,  but  work  was  the  programme  for 
the  next.  I  went  to  Draper's  Inn  and  engaged  a  horse  and  buggy  "  until 
further  notice."  "  A  spang-up  team  "  he  called  it,  and  it  would  be  up  "  in 
half  a  jiffy."  We  were  waiting  for  it  when  it  came,  and  what  with  our 
variety  of  luggage  in  the  shape  of  canvases,  color-boxes,  hammocks,  camp- 
seats,  and  easels,  every  bit  of  available  space  in  that  buggy  was  well  util- 
ized. Before  the  clock  has  struck  nine,  we  are  spinning  along  down 
through  the  village,  now  past  the  store,  now  over  the  bridge,  and  turning 
to  the  right,  we  glide  by  the  little  post-office,  as  the  kind  face  of  Father 

Tomlinson     nods     a 
-    ~  -  -.^  good-bye      from   the 

door-way. 

A  little  farther,  and 
we  have  left  the  little 
slope -roofed  school- 
house  in  our  path,  and 
are  soon  ascending  the 
long  hill  of  Zoar,  from 
which  we  look  back 
four  miles  to  the  cliff 
and  nestling  town.  In 
ten  mmutes  more  we  approach  the 
brow  of  a  steep  declivity,  and  the 
broad  Housatonic  opens  up  to  view, 
winding  off  into  the  misty  mountains  in 
the  distance.  There  is  now  a  drive  of 
half  a  mile  along  the  side  of  a  wild  moun- 
tain-slope, where  mountain-laurels  grow  in 
wild  profusion,  and  the  rooty,  overhanging 
banks  are  tufted  with  rich  green  moss,  overgrown  with  checker-berries 
and  arbutus.  The  river  roars  far  down  below  us,  and  for  a  few  minutes 
our  eyes  feast  on  as  lovely  an  extent  of  varied  New  England  landscape 
as  is  easily  found.  And  yet  this  is  only  a  short  section  of  one  of  the 
many  matchless  drives  that  follow  the  course  of  this  beautiful  river 
around  the  borders  of  Hometown. 

Suddenly  we  leave  the  stream  as  it  glides  away  on  an  abrupt  turn 
beneath  the  crescent  of  a  rocky  precipice,  and  before  we  have  fairly  lost 
the  sound  of  the  ripples  we  have  arrived  at  our  journey's  end.     A  pair  of 


FAMILIAR   FACES   AT   THE   VILLAGE 
STORE. 


SUMMER.  71 

bars  under  an  old  butternut-tree  mark  the  place.  The  carriage  is  backed 
to  the  side  of  the  road,  and  the  horse  turned  loose  in  the  rocky  meadow. 
This  is  Joab  Nichols's  "  pasture  lot,"  with  fodder  consisting  principally  of 
huge  boulders,  hardback,  and  spleenwort ;  to  be  sure,  with  a  stray  relish 
of  "  butter-and-eggs  "  here  and  there,  and  a  thousand  white  saucers  of  wild 
carrot  handy  to  go  with  them.  One  or  two  trips  across  the  field  bring  all 
our  luggage,  and  we  are  soon  enjoying  cool  comfort  in  the  hemlock  shade 
of  a  fairy  grotto.  Above  us  the  babbling  brook  bounds  and  splashes  over 
mossy  rocks,  disappearing  in  a  mass  of  creamy  foam,  from  under  which  it 
eddies  toward  us  only  to  plunge  twenty  feet  into  a  miniature  canon  be- 
low. Again,  yonder  it  bubbles  into  a  whirling  pool,  where  the  bordering 
ferns  bend  and  nod  above  its  buoyant  surface ;  and  now  gliding  from  view 
beneath  the  tangle  of  drooping  boughs,  it  disappears  only  to  burst  forth 
once  more  in  its  merry  song  as  it  rushes  over  the  rapids. 

"  I  chatter,  chatter  as  I  go, 

To  join  the  brimming  river ; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever." 

Here  in  this  wild  retreat  I  have  found  my  sylvan  studio — shut  in  by 
fringed  and  fragrant  evergreens,  enlivened  by  the  undergrowth  of  feath- 
ery fronds,  and  the  shimmer  of  the  beech,  as  the  tracery  of  overhanging 
boughs  trembles  in  the  gentle  breeze.  Day  after  day  finds  us  in  this  little 
paradise,  and  as  one  in  luxurious  hammock  swings  away  the  hours,  now 
lost  in  fiction,  now  in  short  repose,  or  perhaps  with  busy  needle  fashions 
graceful  figures  in  Kensington  design,  the  canvas  on  the  easel  shows 
a  fortnight's  constant  care,  and  the  palette  changes  to  a  keepsake  of  a 
sunny  memory — a  tinted  souvenir. 

For  two  weeks  the  gurgling  brook  sang  to  us  in  this  wild  retreat.  As 
evening  after  evening  closed  in  upon  us,  the  unfinished  pictures  were 
stowed  away  in  horizontal  crevices  between  the  rocks,  and,  with  hammock 
still  swinging  in  the  trees,  we  left  the  gloom  to  the  hooting  owl,  that  even- 
ing after  evening,  with  tremulous  cry,  proclaimed  the  twilight  hour  from 
the  tall  hemlock  overhead.  Ere  lonaf  the  murmuring  Housatonic  shim- 
mers  below  us  in  the  moonlight  as  we  hurry  on  our  homeward  way,  and 
the  distant  lights  of  Hometown  are  soon  seen  glimmering  through  the 
evening  mist.  The  old  bridge  now  rumbles  through  the  darkness  its  sig- 
nal of  our  return,  and  the  host  of  Draper's  Inn  is  seen  awaiting  us  at  the 


72 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


illumined  door-way.     A  quiet,  cosy  supper,  and  in  the  rays  of  a  gleaming 
lantern,  held  aloft  to  light  our  path,  we  follow  our  lengthening  shadows  to 

the  old  front  gate.      Repeat  this  day's 

record  fourteen  times,  and  you  have 

the  sum  of  <a  happy  experience, 

fegj     with  but  one  drawback:  it 

had   an   end — an   end  that 

would  have  left  its  reaction, 

were  it  not  for  the  store 

reased    pleasure 

»vaited  us  for  the 

'  closing  days  of 

)ur  pilgrimage — 

for  me,  at  least, 

although      in 

other    scenes, 

'      its  climax. 

Many  like 
me    are  hajj- 
py     in     the 
possession  of 
a    dear     old 
homestead ; 
but   there    are 
few,  I  ween,  who 
enjoy  the  bless- 
ing of  a  double 
inheritance  such 
as  has  been   my 
lot  —  two    homes 
equal  devotion,  two 
choice  ;  the  one  this 
town,  and  the  other — 
be  there   soon,  for  the 
the  carriage  awaits  us 
teen  miles  is  before  us 


which    share    my 
homes     without    a 
beloved    heirloom    in    Home- 
But  you  shall  see.     We  shall 
little    satchel    is   packed,  and 
at  the  gate.     A  drive  of  eigh- 
— a  beautiful  series  of  pictures.     Down  through  the  village,  past  the  old 
red  mill  and  smithy,  with  its  ringing  anvil,  and  we  are  soon  winding  our 


A   SOUVENIR. 


SUMMER.  73 

way  through  a  sombre  glen.  Presently  we  catch  glimpses  of  the  great 
rumbling  factory,  with  its  clouds  of  smoke  and  steam  melting  into  the 
wooded  mountain  above.  The  old  yellow  bridge  now  creaks  under  our 
approach,  and  ere  we  are  aware  a  sudden  turn  leads  us  out  of  a  wilder- 
ness on  to  the  shore  of  the  beautiful  Housatonic.  For  a  few  minutes 
the  rushing  water  trickles  through  the  wheels  as  over  jolting  stones  our 
pony  leads  us  through  the  ford,  and,  refreshed  by  the  cool  bath,  makes  a 
lively  sally  up  the  eastern  bank.  For  ten  miles  the  Housatonic  guides 
us  around  its  winding  curves  through  a  path  of  ever-changing  beauty, 
now  shut  in  by  the  dense,  dark  evergreens,  and  again  emerging  into 
a  bower  of  silvery  beeches,  where  the  roadway  is  carpeted  with  mottled 
shadows,  and  the  dappled  trunks  flicker  with  the  softened  glints  of  sun- 
light. Here  we  come  upon  a  sandy  stretch  where  the  road  is  sunken 
between  two  sloping  banks  thick-set  with  mulleins  and  sweet-fern,  and 
overrun  with  creeping  brambles.  The  stone -wall  above  is  wreathed  in 
trailing  woodbine,  and  along  its  crest  we  see  the  swaying  tips  of  wheat 
from  the  edge  of  the  field  just  beyond  ;  and  here  we  pass  a  border  of 
whortleberry  bushes,  laden  with  their  fruit.  Now  it  is  a  hazel  thicket 
crowding  close  upon  our  wheels,  and  among  the  leaves  we  see  the  brown, 
tanned  husks  of  the  ripening  nuts,  almost  ready  for  that  troop  of  boys  and 
girls  that  you  may  be  sure  are  watching  and  waiting  for  them. 

The  old  gray  toll-bridge  soon  neai^s  to  view,  with  its  two  long  spans 
and  fantastic  beams.  Farther  on,  peering  from  its  willows,  stands  the 
ruined  cider- mill,  with  its  long  moss-grown  lever  jutting  through  the 
trees — an  old-time  haunt,  now  crumbling  in  decay.  But  we  only  catch  a 
glimpse  of  it,  for  in  a  moment  more  we  are  shut  in  beneath  another 
bower  of  beeches  and  white  birches,  where  the  road  takes  a  steep  ascent, 
and  the  rippling  river  sends  up  its  sunny  reflections  among  the  leaves 
and  tree -trunks.  When  once  more  upon  a  level,  it  is  to  look  ahead 
through  a  long  avenue  of  shade — a  leafy  canopy  two  miles  in  length — 
with  only  an  occasional  break  to  open  up  some  charming  bit  of  landscape 
across  the  water.  In  these  two  miles  of  umbrage  you  may  see  types  of 
almost  every  tree  that  grows  within  the  boundaries  of  New  England. 
Old  veteran  beeches  are  here,  their  trunks  disfigured  with  scars  that  once 
were  names  cut  in  the  bark.  Here  are  spots  that  look  like  half  obliter- 
ated figures  ;  and  here  are  spreading  hieroglyphs  that  tell,  perhaps,  of  old- 
time  vows  plighted  at  the  trysting-tree ;  and  here's  a  semblance  of  a  heart, 
a  broken  heart  indeed,  if  its  present  form  be  taken  as  a  prophetic  symbol. 


74 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


There  are  magnificent  rock-maples  too,  and  silver-maples  that  shake 
down  their  little  swarms  of  winged  seeds.     Tulip-trees  and  spotted  button- 


ALONG   THE   HOUSATONIC. 


woods  grow  side  by 
side,  and  quivering  as- 
pens and  white  poplars 
are  seen  at  every  clear- 
ing. There  are  yellow  birch-trunks  frayed  out  with  the  wind,  and  great 
snake-like  stems  of  grape-vine,  that  twist  and  writhe  among  the  branches 
of  the  trees.  There  are  hop  hornbeams,  and  chestnuts,  and —  But  there 
is  no  need  to  enumerate  them  all.  Just  think  of  every  New  England  tree 
you  ever  knew,  and  add  a  score  besides,  and  you  will  form  a  slight  idea 
of  the  varied  verdure  that  hems  in  this  charming  Housatonic  drive,  with 
its  rocky  roadside  embroidered  in  trickling  moss  and  fumitory ;  and  rose- 
flowered  mountain-raspberry  growing  so  close  upon  the  road  that  your 
pony  takes  a  wayward  nip,  and  plucks  its  blossomed  tip  as  he  passes. 

Now  comes  an  open  level,  with  wide,  expansive  views,  where  every 
turn  upon  the  road  brings  its  fresh  surprise,  as  some  new  combination 
of  hazy  mountain  landscape  towers  above  the  distant  river  bend  ;  and 
the  flitting  cloud  shadows  lead  their  capricious,  undulating  chase  across 
tlie  wooded  slopes.  The  roadsides  here  are  full  of  everchanging  beauties 
too,  with  their  trimmings  of  ornamental  sunflowers,  their  picturesque  old 


SUMMER.  75 

fences,  and  their  clumps  of  purple-berried  poke-weed,  with  here  and  there 
a  yellow  patch  of  toad -flax,  and  aromatic  tufts  of  tansy  hugging  close 
against  the  fence.  Even  that  clambering  screen  of  clematis  that  trails 
over  the  shrubbery  yonder  cannot  hide  the  scattered  tips  of  crimson  that 
already  have  appeared  among  the  sumach  leaves. 

There  are  a  thousand  things  one  meets  upon  a  country  ride  or  ram- 
ble which  at  the  time  are  allowed  to  pass  with  but  a  glance.  The  eye 
is  surfeited  and  the  mind  confused  with  the  continual  pageantry.  But 
months  afterward,  in  the  reveries  about  our  winter  fires,  they  all  come 
back  to  us,  with  the  added  charm  of  reminiscence  ;  and  whether  it  be  a 
crystal  spring  among  a  bank  of  ferns,  or  a  thistle-top  with  its  fluttering 
butterfly  and  inevitable  bumblebee  rolling  in  the  tufted  blossom,  or  a 
squirrel  running  along  a  rail,  or  perhaps  a  rattling  grasshopper  hovering 
in  mid-air  above  the  dusty  road — no  matter  what,  they  all  are  welcome 
memories  at  our  fireside,  and  draw  our  hearts  still  closer  to  the  loveliness 
of  nature. 

This  Housatonic  road  is  rich  in  just  such  pastoral  pictures.  Two 
hours  on  such  a  course  soon  pass,  when  our  pony  whinnies  at  the  wel- 
come sight  of  the  old  log  water-trough  beyond — a  landmark  old  and 
green  when  I  was  yet  a  boy,  still  nestling  in  its  rocky  bed,  shadowed  by 
the  drooping  hemlocks,  still  lavish  with  its  overflowing  bounty. 

This  benefactor  by  the  way-side  marks  a  turning-point  in  our  jour- 
ney, as  we  leave  the  grandeur  of  the  Housatonic  to  pursue  our  way  by 
the  nooks  and  dingles  of  the  wild  Shepaug — a  bubbling  tributary  whose 
happy  waters  sing  of  a  varied  experience.  Now  placid  through  the 
blossoming  fields,  now  plunging  down  the  precipice  to  ripple  through  a 
verdant  valley,  where,  hemmed  in  at  every  turn,  it  seeks  its  only  liberty 
beneath  the  rumbling  of  the  old  mill-wheels ;  and  at  last,  ere  it  loses  its 
identity  in  the  swelling  tide,  leaving  a  mischievous  and  tumultuous  record 
as  it  pours  through  the  rocky  canon,  and  with  surging,  whirling  volume 
carves  huge  caverns  and  fantastic  statues  in  its  massive  bed  of  stone. 
Even  now  through  the  dark  forest  beyond  we  can  hear  the  muflled  roar, 
and  for  nearly  a  league  farther  as  we  ascend  the  long  hill  it  comes  to  us 
in  fitful  whispers  wafted  on  the  changing  breeze.  Reaching  the  summit 
of  this  incline,  we  find  ourselves  on  a  hill-top  wide  and  far-reaching,  on 
right  and  left  losing  itself  in  wooded  wold,  while  in  front  the  level  road 
diminishes  to  a  point,  surmounted  by  blue  hills  in  the  distance.  Two 
miles    on   a  pastoral  hill-top,  where  golden-rod  and   tall   spiraeas   cluster 


76  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

along  the  lichen-covered  walls,  where  orange-lilies  gleam  among  the  alders, 
with  now  and  then  a  blazing  group  of  butterfly-plant  or  a  dusty  clump 
of  milk-weed.  The  air  is  laden  with  the  nut-like  odor  of  the  everlasting 
flowers  all  around  us.  The  buzzing  drum  of  the  harvest-flv  vibrates  from 
every  tree,  and  we  hear  the  tinkling  bell  and  lowing  of  the  cattle  in  some 
neighboring  field.  Farther  on,  we  look  down  from  the  edge  of  the  pla- 
teau through  the  length  of  Happy  Valley,  with  its  winding  stream,  its 
barns  and  busy  mills,  its  sunny  homes  glinting  through  the  summer  haze. 
On  the  left  the  lofty  shadowed  cliff  known  as  "Steep-rock"  towers  against 
the  evening  sky,  and  again  we  catch  the  murmuring  whiffs  of  the  rush- 
ing stream  in  its  sweeping  bend  beneath  the  overhanging  precipice.  A 
sharp  turn  round  a  jutting  hill-side,  and  I  meet  a  prospect  that  quickens 
the  heart  and  makes  the  eye  grow  dim.  There  beyond,  three  miles  "  as 
flies  the  laden  bee,"  I  linger  on  the  welcome  sight,  as  on  its  hill-top  fair 
two  steeples  side  by  side  betray  the  hidden  town,  my  second  home. 

How  lightly  did  I  appreciate  the  fortunate  journey  when,  twenty  sum- 
mers ago,  I  followed  this  road  for  the  first  time,  when  a  boy  of  ten  years, 
on  my  way  to  an  unknown  village,  I  looked  across  the  landscape  to  the 
little  spires  on  that  distant  hill !  Little  did  I  dream  of  the  six  years  of 
unmixed  happiness  and  precious  experience  that  awaited  me  in  that  little 
Judea!  I  only  knew  that  I  was  sadly  quitting  a  happy  home  on  my  way 
to  "boarding-school" — a  school  called  the  Snuggery,  taught  by  a  Mr. 
Snug,  in  a  little  village  named  Snug  Hamlet,  about  twenty  miles  from 
Hometown. 

There  are  some  experiences  in  the  life  of  every  one  which,  however 
truthful,  cannot  be  told  but  to  elicit  the  doubtful  nod  or  the  warning 
finger  of  incredulity.  They  were  such  experiences  as  these,  however,  that 
made  up  the  sum  of  my  early  life  in  that  happy  refuge  called  in  modern 
parlance  a  "  boarding-school " — a  name  as  empty,  a  word  as  weak  and 
tame  in  its  significance,  as  poverty  itself ;  no  doubt  abundantly  expressive 
in  its  ordinary  application,  but  here  it  is  a  mockery  and  a  satire.  This 
is  not  a  "  boarding-school ;"  it  is  a  household,  whose  memories  moisten  the 
eye  and  stir  the  soul ;  to  which  its  scattered  members  through  the  fleet- 
ing years  look  back  as  to  a  neglected  home,  with  father  and  mother  dear, 
whom  they  long  once  more  to  meet  as  in  the  tenderness  of  boyhood 
days ;  a  cherished  remembrance  which,  like  the  "  house  upon  a  hill,  can- 
not be  hid,"  but  sends  abroad  its  light  unto  many  hearts  who  in  those 
early  days  sought  the  loving  shelter;  a  bright  star  in  the  horizon  of  the 


SUMMER.  7  J 

past,  a  glow  that  ne'er  grows  dim,  but  only  kindles  and  brightens  with 
the  flood  of  years.  Yes,  yes ;  I  know  it  sounds  like  a  dash  of  sentiment, 
but  words  of  mine  are  feeble  and  impotent  indeed  when  sought  for  the 
expression  of  an  attachment  so  fond,  of  a  love  so  deep. 

Fifteen  years  ago,  with  a  parting  full  of  sorrow,  I  rode  away  from 
Snug  Hamlet  yonder  in  the  village  stage — a  day  that  brought  a  depres- 
sion that  lingered  long,  and  lingers  still.  Glowing,  sunset-tinted  fields 
glide  by  unnoticed  now,  as,  with  eyes  intent  on  the  distant  hill,  I  look 
back  through  the  lapse  of  time.  A  mile  has  gone  without  my  knowing 
it,  when  a  joyous  laugh  awakens  me  from  my  day-dreams.  Two  boys 
approach  us  on  the  road  ahead,  and,  what  might  seem  very  strange  to 
you,  one  wears  a  wooden  boot-jack  strung  around  his  neck  and  dangling 
on  his  breast ;  but  he  carries  his  burden  lightly  and  cheerfully.  As  they 
near  the  carriage  I  draw  the  rein,  and  they  both  pause  by  the  roadside. 

"  Well,  boys,"  I  ask,  "  where  do  you  hail  from  V 

"  We're  from  the  Snuggery,  sir." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  I,  with  a  laugh,  in  which  they  both  joined.  "  But 
what  are  you  doing  with  that  boot-jack  V 

"  Oh,  you  see,"  said  one,  with  a  roguish  smile,  "  Charlie  and  I  were 
having  a  little  tussle  in  the  sitting-room,  and  he  picked  up  Mr.  Snug's 
boot-jack  in  the  corner  and  began  to  pummel  me  with  it ;  and  jest  as  we 
were  having  it  the  worst,  and  were  rollin'  on  the  floor,  Mr.  Snug  came  in 
and  caught  us  in  the  job,  and  now  we're  payin  for  it." 

"  How  so  .''"  I  inquired,  well  knowing  what  would  be  the  response. 

"  Oh,  you  see,  Mr.  Snug  held  a  diagnosis  over  our  remains,  and  said 
he  thought  we  were  suffering  for  the  want  of  a  little  exercise,  and 
ordered  us  on  a  trip  to  Judd's  Bridge." 

"And  the  boot-jack?" 

"  Oh,  he  said  that  Charlie  might  want  to  play  with  that  some  more 
on  the  way,  and  that  he'd  better  fetch  it  along ;"  and  with  a  mischievous 
snicker  at  his  encumbered  companion,  he  led  him  along  the  road  in  an 
hilarious  race,  while  we  enjoyed  a  hearty  laugh  at  their  expense. 

And  this  a  punishment  I  Yes,  here  is  an  introduction  to  one  phase 
of  a  system  of  correction  as  unique  as  the  matchless  institution  in  which 
it  had  its  birth — a  system  without  a  parallel  in  the  annals  of  chastise- 
ment or  school  government,  and  which  for  thirty  years  has  proved  its 
wisdom  in  the  household  management  of  the  Snuggery. 

"  To  Judd's  Bridge !"     How  natural  the  sound  of  those  words !     How 

10* 


78 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


many  times  have  I  myself  been  on  that  same  pilgrimage  of  penance  ! 
The  destination  of  these  boys  is  a  rickety  but  picturesque  structure 
which  spans  the  Shepaug  five  miles  below  Snug  Hamlet.  Through  three 
decades  it  looks  back  to  its  host  of  acquaintances  of  those  romping  lads 
who,  in  the  superfluity  of  exuberant  spirits,  made  havoc  and  din  in  the 
household.  The  dose  is  administered  with  wise  discrimination  both  as 
to  the  symptoms  and  the  needs  and  strength  of  the  patient.  It  always 
proves  a  sterling  remedy,  and  sometimes,  indeed,  a  sugar-coated  one,  as 
in  the  case  of  these  two  ruddy,  rollicking  examples. 


& 


Judd's  Bridge  is  but  one  of  a  score  of  places  which  serve  in  the 
administration  of  Snuggery  discipline.  It  is,  however,  the  one  most  re- 
mote, and  its  ten-mile  journey  is  reserved  as  an  heroic  dose  for  extraor- 
dinary cases,  after  other  prescriptions  have  been  tried  without  avail. 
Next  on  the  list  comes  Moody  Barn,  with  "open  doors"  every  day  in  the 
week  to  its  frequent  callers.  This  old  settler,  gray  and  weather-beaten, 
marks  a  point  one  mile  from  the  Snuggery,  where  the  still  waters  of 
the  Shepaug  run  slow  and  deep — the  favorite  "  swimming-hole "  of  the 
Snuggery. 


f^f^. 


gWsf 


.^-r"£ 


.^^ 


^^^^f' 


>h^,.-^''' 


\ 


THE   HAUNTED   MILL. 


And  then  there's  Kirby  Corners,  a  mere  stroll        l 
of  a  few  minutes  round  the  square  of  a  rock-bound       \  j  W      \ 
pasture — just  enough  to  give  yourself  time  to  think  a 
bit  and  congratulate  yourself  on  what  you  have  escaped. 
All  these,  and  several  more,  are   vivid  in  my  memory ; 
friends,  old    and    intimate.       And    here's    another,  right 
before  us  by  the  roadside.     For  several  minutes  through  the  tantalizing 
trees  we  have  heard  its   rumbling  wheel,  its   reiterating  clank,  and  busy 
saw;  and  now,  as  its  familiar  outline  looms  up  against  the  evening  sky, 
the  vision  seems  to  darken,  as  on  that  night  of  long  ago,  when  through 


8o  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

the  shadowy  mystery  of  the  moonlit  gloom  I  stole  my  way  among  the 
sheltering  golden-rod ;  when  the  lofty  flume,  like  a  huge  horned  creat- 
ure, seemed  to  stride  athwart  me  in  the  darkness,  and  the  fitful  boyish 
fancy  saw  strange  phantoms  in  the  floating,  melting  mist.  This  ancient 
structure  reposes  in  a  verdant  dell  at  the  foot  of  Snug  Hamlet  Hill. 
A  choice  of  two  roads  lies  before  us — one  short  and  direct,  the  other 
a  roundabout  approach.  A  sudden  impulse  leads  me  into  the  latter. 
On  right  and  left  I  see  the  same  old  rocks  and  trees.  There  stands  the 
aged  beech  to  whose  gnarled  and  hollow  trunk  I  traced  the  agile  flying- 
squirrel,  and  with  suffocating  flame  and  smoke  drove  him  from  his  hid- 
ing-place. Here  between  large  rocks  and  stones  the  trout-stream  runs 
its  course,  now  pouring  in  small  cataracts,  now  eddying  into  still,  dark 
nooks,  where  in  those  by-gone  times  I  dropped  the  line  of  expectancy, 
but  showed  the  clumsiness  of  adversity.  A  few  minutes  later,  and  we  are 
gliding  again  by  the  dark  Shepaug,  now  flowing  calm  and  silent  beneath 
a  rugged  bank,  wild  and  umbrageous,  where  the  swarm  of  katydids,  with 
grating  discord,  maintain  their  old  dispute,  that  never-ending  feud.  The 
wheels  turn  noiselessly  in  the  shifting  sand  as  we  pursue  our  way.  The 
low  gray  fog  steals  lightly  over  the  lily-pads,  floating  into  seclusion  be- 
neath the  sheltering  boughs,  or,  like  an  evanescent  spirit,  borne  upon  the 
evening  breath,  is  lifted  from  the  gloom,  and  slowly  melts  into  the  twi- 
light sky.  The  solitary  whippoorwill  from  his  mysterious  haunt,  per- 
haps in  yonder  tree,  perhaps  in  the  mountain  loneliness  beyond,  proclaims 
with  dismal  cry  his  oft-repeated  wail.  And  as  we  ascend  the  darkening 
path,  through  the  still  night  air,  in  measured  cadence  long  and  sad,  we 
hear  the  toll  of  the  distant  knell.  Threescore-and-ten  its  numbers  tell 
of  the  earthly  years — a  curfew  requiem  for  the  dead.  Even  as  we  pass 
the  little  chapel  at  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  the  bell  has  scarcely  ceased 
its  melancholy  tidings,  we  hear  the  shouts  and  merry  laughs  of  the  boys 
on  the  village  green.  Presently  its  broad  expanse,  shut  in  by  twinkling 
windows  and  massive  trees,  spreads  out  before  us,  as  a  clear  and  ringing 
voice,  like  that  of  old,  echoes  through  the  growing  darkness,  "  One  hun- 
dred !  Nothing  said,  coming  ahead !"  and  a  dim  figure  steals  cautiously 
from  the  steps  of  the  old  white  church  to  seek  in  the  sequestered  hiding- 
places.  With  a  heart  that  fairly  thumps,  I  urge  my  pony  onward  across 
the  green,  and  ere  he  slackens  his  pace  I  am  at  my  journey's  end.  The 
dear  old  Snuggery,  with  its  gables  manifold  and  quaint,  its  fantastic 
wings  and  towers,  stands  there  before  me,  the  glowing  windows  beammg 


SU  AIMER. 


8i 


through  the  maples.      Leaving  our  pony  in  willing  hands,  we  enter  the 
gate,  and  are  soon  upon  the  wide  porch. 

It  is  eight  o'clock,  and  the  Snuggery  is  hushed  in  the  quiet  of  the 
study  hour,  and  as  we  look  through  the  windows  we  see  the  little  groups 
of  studious   lads  bending  over  their  books.      ^,^..v.., 
Turning  a    corner  on   the   piazza,  we    are       i'-^-C"^?  ,       f-r^^ 


confronted  with  a  tall  hexas^onal  struct- 


^^^-rts^ 


ure   at   its  farther    end.      This  is 
the  Tower,  the  lower  room  of  which 
is  consecrated  to  the  cosy  retirement 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Snug.     The  door  lead- 
ing to    the    porch    is    open,  and,  as    if 
awakening   from    a    nap    in   which    the 
past  fifteen  years  have  been   a  dream, 
I  listen  to  the  same  dear  voice.     I  ap- 
proach nearer.      Under  the  glow  of  a  students  lamp  I  look  upon  the 
beloved  face,  the  flowing  hair  and  beard  now  silvered  with  the  lapse  of 
years — a  face  of  unusual  firmness,  but  whose  every  line   marks   the  ex- 
pression of  a  tender,  loving  nature,  and  of  a  large  and  noble  heart.     Near 


PURSUERS   AND    PURSUED. 


(K- 


82  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

him  another  sits — a  helpmeet  kind  and  true,  cherished  companion  in  a 
happy,  useful  life.  Into  her  lap  a  nestling  lad  has  climbed ;  and  as  she 
strokes  the  curly  head  and  looks  into  the  chubby  face,  I  see  the  same 
expression  as  of  old,  the  same  motherly  tenderness  and  love  beaming 
from  the  large  gray  eyes. 

Mr.  Snug  is  leaning  back  in  his  easy-chair,  and  two  boys  are  stand- 
ing up  before  him  ;  one  of  them  is  speaking,  evidently  in  answer  to  a 
question. 

"  I  called  him  a  galoot,  sir."    ^ 

"  You  called  George  a  galoot,  and  then  he  threw  the  base-ball  club  at 
you — is  that  it .?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  interrupted  George ;  "  but  I  was  only  playing,  sir." 

"  Yes,"  resumed  the  voice  of  Mr.  Snug,  "  but  that  club  went  with  con- 
siderable force,  and  landed  over  the  fence,  and  made  havoc  in  Deacon 
Parish's  onion-bed ;  and  that  reminds  me  that  the  deacon's  onion-bed  is 
overrun  with  weeds.  Now,  Willie,"  continued  Mr.  Snug,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  with  eyes  closed,  and  head  thrown  back  against  the  chair, 
"  Saturday  morning — to-morrow,  that  is — directly  after  breakfast,  you  go 
out  into  the  grove  and  call  names  to  the  big  rock  for  half  an  hour. 
Don't  stop  to  take  breath  ;  and  don't  call  the  same  name  twice.  Your 
vocabulary  will  easily  stand  the  drain.     You  understand  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"And,  George,"  continued  Mr.  Snug,  with  deliberate,  easy  intonation, 
"  to-morrow  morning,  at  the  same  time,  you  present  yourself  politely  to 
Deacon  Parish,  tell  him  that  I  sent  you,  and  ask  him  to  escort  you  to 
his  onion-bed.  After  which  you  will  go  carefully  to  work  and  pull  out 
all  the  weeds.     You  understand,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"And  then  you  will  both  report  to  me  as  usual."  And  with  a  pleas- 
ant smile,  which  was  reflected  in  both  their  faces,  the  erring  youngsters 
were  dismissed.  Before  the  door  has  closed  behind  them  we  are  stand- 
ing in  the  door-way.  Here  I  draw  the  curtain ;  for  who  but  one  of  its 
own  household  could  understand  a  welcome  at  the  Snuggery  'i 

Those  of  my  old  school-mates  who  read  this  meagre  sketch  will  know 
the  happiness  of  such  a  meeting ;  but  others  less  fortunate  in  the  recol- ' 
lections  of  school-life  can  only  look  for  its  counterpart  in  an  affectionate 
welcome  in  their  own  homes,  for  the  Snuggery  is  a  home  to  all  who  ever 
dwelt  within  its  gates.     Seated  in  the  familiar  cosiness,  and  surrounded 


SUMMER. 


H 


by  the  friends  of  my  school-days,  the  hours  fly  fast  and  pleasantly.  There 
is  plenty  to  talk  about.  Here  is  a  village  full  of  good  people  of  whom  I 
wish  to  learn,  and  there  are  many  far-off  chums  of  whom  I  carry  tidings. 
A  bell  rings  in  the  cupola  as  one  by  one,  from  the  buzz  in  the  outer 
rooms,  boys  large  and  small  seek 
our  seclusion  for  the  accustomed 
good-night  adieu  ;  and  ere  another 
hour  has  passed  forty  sleepy  ur- 
chins are  packed  away  in  their 
snug  quarters.  The  evening  runs 
on  into  midnight,  as  with  stories 
of  the  past,  its  pains  and  penalties, 
its  remembrances,  now  humorous 
now  sad  by  turns,  we  recall  the 
good  old  times ;  and  the  "  wee  sma' 
hours"  are  already  upon  us  as  we 
reluctantly  retire  from  the  goodly 
company  to  our  rooms  across  the 
way. 

The  next  morning  finds  us       ,. 
in  the  midst  of  a  merry  load,      >7^ 
with  Mr.  Snug  as   a  driver;       ,.y!^ 
and  many  and   varied   were 
the  beauties  that  opened  up       '-i 
before    us    on    that    charming 
ride  !     Snug  Hamlet,  once  called 
Judea,  in   the   qualities   of  its   land- 
scape as  well  as  in  everything  else, 
is    unique.       Stripped    of    all    its    old 
associations,  it  presents  to  the  artistic 
eye  a  combination  of  attractions  scarce- 
ly to  be  equalled  in  the  boundaries  of 
New  Ensiland.     Situated  itself  on  the 

brow  of  an  abrupt  hill,  where  its  picturesque  homes  cluster  about  a  broad 
open  green,  a  few  minutes'  drive  in  any  direction  reveals  a  surrounding 
panorama  of  the  rarest  loveliness.  Five  hundred  feet  below  us,  winding 
in  and  out,  now  beneath  leafy  tangles,  now  under  quaint  little  bridges, 
and  again  reposing  placidly  in  broad  mill-ponds,  the  happy  Shepaug  lends 


TOLLING   FOR   THE   DEAD. 


84 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


to  a  lovely  valley  its  usefulness  and  beauty.     Turning  in  another  direc- 
tion, we  pass   the   Snuggery   ball-ground,  animated  with    the    shouts   of 


-^■riir   ^«  i^r  JiABib  H 


■  ■^X^^       victory;   and  descending  into   a 
" —        vale    of    almost    primeval    wild- 
ness,  we   continue   our  way    up    the 
ascent  of  "Artist's  Hill,"  from  whose 
summit  on  every  side,  as  far  as  the  eye 
can  reach,  the  landscape  softens  into  the 
horizon.      Returning,  we    pass    through    a 
luined  waste,  where,  three  months  before,  the  fierce 
=J>>  tornado  swooped  down  in  its  fiendish  fury.     On  every 

''  side  we  see  its  awful  evidences.  Huge  oaks,  like  brittle 
pipe-stems,  snapped  from  their  moorings ;  sturdy  hickories,  mere  play- 
things in  the  gale,  twisted  into  shreds. 

Every  morning  saw  me  on  some  new  drive,  either  with  a  wagon  full 
of  merry  company,  or  as  alone  with  Mr.  Snug  we  held  our  quiet  tite-a-tete 
on  wheels,  living  over  the  olden  times.  In  the  afternoon  I  strolled  by 
myself  through  the  old  and  eloquent  scenes.  A  volume  could  not  hold 
the  memories  they  revived — no,  not  even  those  of  yonder  barn  alone. 
Even  as  I  sit  making  my  pencil-sketch,  its  reminiscences  seem  to  float 
across  the  vision.  Distinctly  it  recalls  the  events  of  one  evening  years 
ago.  It  was  at  about  the  sunset  hour  one  Friday.  I  was  quietly  sitting 
on  a  lounge  in  the  parlor  talking  to  Cuthbert  Harding,  who  was  stand- 
ing in  front  of  me.     Presently  the  door  opens,  and  the  tall  figure  of  Dick 


SUMMER.  85 

Shin  enters.  Dick  and  I  were  antipodes  in  every  sense  of  the  word. 
Physically  we  were  as  a  match  and  a  billiard  ball,  he  being  the  lucifer. 
He  was  also  my  b.-te  noire,  and  he  never  missed  an  opportunity  to  vent 
his  spite.  Accordingly  he  stalked  toward  us,  and  with  a  violent  push 
sent  Cuthbert  pell-mell  on  to  me.  In  falling,  he  stepped  heavily  on  my 
foot,  and  hurt  nre  severely,  which  accounted  for  my  excited  expression  as 
I  threw  him  from  me. 

Of  course  Mr.  Snug  had  to  come  in  just  at  this  time,  and  seeing  us 
in  what  looked  to  him  very  like  a  fight,  he  took  us  firmly  by  the  ears 
and  stood  us  side  by  side,  while  I  ventured  to  explain. 

"  Not  a  word !"  exclaimed  he,  in  a  tone  there  was  no  mistaking.  "You 
two  boys  may  cool  off  on  a  trip  to  Moody  Barn,  after  which  you  will 
report  to  me  iji  the  Tower.     Now  go." 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  state  of  my  mind  a  few  moments  before, 
I  was  now  mad  in  earnest,  and  with  every  bit  of  my  latent  obstinacy 
aroused,  I  sauatered  out  on  to  the  porch. 

"  Cool  off,  old  boy,"  whispered  a  grating  voice  at  my  side,  as  I  turned 
and  met  the  graze  of  Dick  Shin,  motionina:  with  his  thumb  in  the  direc- 
tion  of  Moody  Barn — "  cool  off ;  you  need  it ;"  and  his  ample  mouth 
stretched  into  a  sneering  grin. 

I  had  already  formed  an  intention,  but  now  it  was  a  resolve. 

"  Cuthbert,"  said  I  to  my  quiet  and  less  choleric  companion,  when 
some  distance  down  the  road,  "  I  am  not  going  on  that  trip." 

"  Not  going  !"  replied  he,  with  surprise  ;  "  why,  you'll  have  to  go." 

"  But  I  wont  go,  and  that  settles  it.  It's  confounded  unjust  that  we're 
sent,  anyhow,  and  I  don't  propose  to  stand  it." 

"I  think  so  too,"  answered  Cuthbert,  with  hesitating  emphasis;  "but 
what  '11  we  do  .?  We'll  have  to  report  to  Mr.  Snug,  you  know ;  that's  the 
zvorst  of  it." 

"Well,  I'll  be  spokesman,  and  I'll  lie  before  I'll  go  on  that  trip." 

I  was  boiling  over  with  righteous  wrath,  but  Cuthbert  never  was 
known  to  boil ;  he  only  simmered  a  little,  but  readily  seconded  my  plan. 
We  stopped  at  Kirby  Corners,  and  there,  secluded  from  view  in  the 
bushes,  we  spent  the  interval.  Cuthbert  had  a  watch,  and  by  the  light 
of  the  rising  moon  we  were  enabled  to  fix  the  full  period  for  the  trip. 
One  hour  and  a  half  we  allowed — an  abundant  limit.  During  this  time 
I  had  completely  "  cooled  off,"  and  had  schooled  myself  to  that  point 
where    I   could   tell   a  lie   with   a   smooth  face    and   a    clear    conscience. 


86 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


Accordingly,  when  the  time  came,  we  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  Tower. 
Mr.  Snug  was  sitting  in  his  accustomed  place,  and  we  entered  and  stood 
before  him. 


L% 


PASSING   THOUGHTS. 


"  Well,  sir,"  said  he,  with  a  polite  bow  of  the  head,  dropping  his  paper 
and  looking  up  at  us. 

"  Mr.  Snug,  we  have  come  to  report,"  said  I,  fearlessly.  "  We  have 
been  to  Moody  Barn." 

Instantly  Mr.  Snug  straightened  himself  up  in  his  chair,  pushed  back 


SUMMER.  87 

the  gray  locks  from  his  high  forehead,  and,  with  an  expression  that  I 
never  shall  forget,  glared  at  me  from  under  the  frowning  eyebrows. 

"  Yoit  lie,  sir  /"  he  exclaimed,  in  thundering  tones  that  fairly  made  my 
hair  stand  on  end,  while  Cuthbert  trembled  from  head  to  foot;  then  fol- 
lowed a  brief  moment  of  consternation  that  seemed  an  age.  "  Now  go  !" 
continued  he,  as  with  an  emphatic  nod  of  the  head  he  motioned  toward 
the  door.  Sheepish  and  crest-fallen,  we  slunk  away  from  the  room.  It 
is  needless  to  say  that  we  went  this  time.  Through  the  darkness,  by  the 
aid  of  a  lantern,  we  picked  our  way,  as  with  theories  numerous  and  in- 
genious we  strove  to  account  for  that  vociferous  reception. 

Late  that  night  we  held  an  experience  meeting  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Snug  in  the  Tower,  and  if  I  remember  right  there  were  a  few  tears  that 
fell,  and  many  apologies  and  good  resolves,  and  as  the  true  state  of  the 
case  dawned  on  Mr.  Snug  there  was  an  evident  twinge  of  regret  on  his 
kind  face. 

On  the  following  morning  (Saturday)  there  was  a  jolly  party  of  youths 
leaving  the  Snuggery  for  a  day's  boating  at  the  lake.  Dick  Shin  was 
among  them ;  and  just  as  he  was  passing  out  the  gate,  a  youngster  ap- 
proaches him  and  taps  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  You  are  hereby  arrested, 
sir,  on  the  orders  of  Mr.  Snug." 

With  an  anxious  and  innocent  expression  Dick  follows  his  juvenile 
constable  into  the  Tower,  and  his  companions  stroll  along  after  to  ascer- 
tain the  cause  of  the  detention.  We  pass  over  the  brief  but  amusing 
trial,  in  which  the  prisoner,  with  the  innocence  of  a  little  lamb,  pleaded 
his  cause. 

"  You  stumbled,  did  you  ?"  said  Mr.  Snug.  "  Well,  you  ought  to  know, 
sir,  by  this  time  that  I  don't  allow  young  men  to  stumble  in  that  way  in 
my  house.  These  two  boys  have  suffered  through  your  admitted  clumsi- 
ness." Here  Mr.  Snug  paused  in  a  moment's  thought.  "  Dick  Shin," 
he  continued,  "  I  sent  these  innocent  young  gentlemen  on  two  trips  to 
Moody  Barn — that  makes  four  miles  for  Bigson  and  four  miles  for  Hard- 
ing, together  making  eight  that  they  walked  on  your  account.  Now  you 
may  put  down  your  fishing-pole,  and  '  stumble '  along  on  the  road  to 
Judd's  Bridge,  which  will  give  you  two  extra  miles  in  which  to  think 
over  your  sins.  And  to  make  sure" — here  Mr.  Snug  arose  and  went  to 
the  closet — "  you  may  take  this  hatchet  along  with  you,  and  bring  me 
back  a  good  big  chip  from  the  end  of  the  long  bridge  beam.  I  shall  ride 
over  that  way  to-morrow  and  see  whether  it  fits.     You  understand }" 


88  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  injured  voice  of  Dick  Shin.  "  But,  Mr.  Snug, 
can't  I  put  off  that  penance  until  Monday }" 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Snug,  with  a  beaming  smile  and  a  bow  of 
the  head.  "  This  is  a  lovely  morning  for  contrite  meditation.  Go — 
instantlyr 

Two  hours  later  saw  a  demonstrative  individual  threatening  to  chop 
down  the  whole  side  of  a  bridge,  while  ten  miles  to  the  northward  the 
placid  surface  of  Waramaug  rippled  to  the  oars,  and  the  lofty  mountain- 
sides echoed  with  the  shouts  of  a  merry  holiday. 

But  all  things  must  have  an  end.  The  school-days  ended,  and  so  did 
this  memorable  vacation.  A  letter  breaks  the  charm  :  insatiate  pub- 
lisher !  Once  more  through  the  winding  paths  of  the  Housatonic,  and 
I  leave  the  loveliness  of  Hometown  for  the  metropolis  of  brick  and  stone, 
there  to  resume  the  old  routine. 


Autumn. 


T   AM  sitting  alone  upon  a  wooded     "^| 
knoll  at   our   old  farm   at    Home- 


town.      Above   me 
a  venerable    oak   holds   aloft  its   dome   of  bronze-green   verdure,  and  on 


94  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

either  side  the  gnarled  and  knotty  branches  bend  low,  and  trail  their 
rustling"  leaves  among  the  tufts  of  waving  grass  that  fringe  the  slope 
around  me. 

It  is  a  spot  endeared  to  me  from  earliest  memory,  a  loved  retreat 
whose  every  glimpse  beneath  the  overhanging  boughs  has  left  its  impress, 
whose  every  feature  of  undulating  field,  of  wooded  mountain,  and  winding 
meadow-brook  I  have  long  been  able  to  summon  up  at  will  before  my 
closed  eyes,  as  though  a  mirror  of  the  living  picture  now  before  me. 
And  what  is  this  picture  t 

It  is  an  enchanted  vision  of  nature's  autumn  loveliness — a  vision  of 
peace  and  tranquil  resignation  that  lingers  like  a  poem  in  the  memory. 
It  is  a  glorious  October  clay,  one  of  those  rarest  and  loveliest  of  days 
when  all  nature  seems  transfigured,  when  a  golden,  misty  veil  swings  from 
the  heavens  in  a  charmed  haze,  through  which  the  commonest  and  most 
prosaic  thing  seems  spiritualized  and  glorified.  The  summers  full  frui- 
tion is  past  and  gone,  the  dross  has  been  consumed ;  and  in  the  lingering 
life,  whose  yielding  flush  now  lends  its  sweet  expression  to  the  declining 
year,  we  see  the  type  of  perfect  trust  and  hope  that  finds  a  fitting  emblem 
in  the  dim  horizon,  where  heaven  and  earth  are  wedded  in  a  golden  haze, 
where  purple  hills  melt  softly  in  the  sky.  It  is  a  day  when  one  may 
dream  with  open  eyes,  and  whose  day-dreams  haunt  the  memory  as  sweet 
realities.  The  sky  is  filled  with  rolling,  fleecy  clouds,  whose  flat  receding 
bases  seem  to  float  upon  a  transparent  amber  sea,  from  whose  depths  I 
look  through  into  the  blue  air  beyond. 

Below  me  an  ancient  orchard  skirts  the  borders  of  the  knoll.  Its 
boughs  are  crimson  studded,  and  the  ground  beneath  is  strewn  with  the 
bright  red  fruit.  They  mark  the  minutes  as  they  fall,  running  the  gaunt- 
let of  the  craggy  twigs  and  bounding  upon  the  slope  beneath.  Beyond 
the  orchard  stretch  the  low,  flat  meadow  lands,  set  with  alders  and  swamp- 
maples,  with  swaying  willows,  now  enclosing,  now  revealing  the  graceful 
curves  of  the  cjuiet  stream  as  it  winds  in  and  out  among  the  overhanging 
foliage.  Soon  it  is  lost  beneath  a  wooded  hill,  where  an  old  square  tower 
and  factory-bell  betray  the  hiding-place  of  the  glassy  pond  that  sends  its 
splashing  water-fall  across  the  rocks  beneath  the  old  town  bridge.  Look- 
ing down  upon  this  bridge.  Mount  Pisgah,  with  its  rugged  cliff,  is  seen 
rising  bold  and  stern  against  the  sky,  above  a  broad  and  bright  mosaic  of 
elms  and  maples,  spreading  from  the  grove  of  oaks  near  by  in  an  un- 
broken expanse,  to  the  very  foot  of  the  precipice,  with  here  and  there  a 


AUTUMN.  95 

sunny  cupola  or  gable  peering  out  among  the  branches,  or  a  snowy  steeple 
lifting  high  its  golden  cross  or  weather-vane  glittering  in  the  sun.  The 
mountain-side  is  lit  up  with  its  autumn  glow"  of  intermingled  maples,  oaks, 
and  beeches,  with  its  changeless  ledges  of  jutting  rock,  and  dense,  defiant 
pines  standing  like  veteran  bearded  sentinels  in  perpetual  vigilance. 

All  this  comes  to  me  in  a  single  glimpse  beneath  the  branches.  But 
there  are  others,  where  undulating  meadows,  with  their  flowing  lines  of 
walls  and  fences,  lead  the  eye  through  soft  gradations  to  distant  purple 
hills,  through  thrifty  farms,  with  barns  and  barracks  and  rowen  fields  with 
browsing  cattle,  and  ruddy  buckwheat  patches,  where  the  flocks  of  village 
pigeons  congregate  among  the  cradle  marks,  in  quest  of  scattered  kernels 
shaken  from  the  sheaves. 

There  is  a  tiny  lake  near  by  that  nestles  among  the  hill-side  farms, 
where  sloping  pastures  and  fields  of  yellow,  rustling  corn  glide  almost  to 
the  water's  edge.  So  sensitive  and  sympathetic  is  this  little  sheet  of 
water  that  I  christened  it  one  day  Chameleon  Lake,  for  it  wears  a  differ- 
ent expression  for  every  phase  of  season  or  freak  of  weather,  and  always 
dwells  in  harmony  with  the  landscape  which  encloses  it.  In  cloudy  days 
it  frowns  as  cold  as  steel.  In  days  of  sunshine  it  is  as  bright  and  blue  as 
the  sky  itself,  or  shimmers  like  a  shield  of  burnished  silver.  And  now  it 
is  a  flood  of  autumn  gold,  carrying  from  shore  to  shore  a  maze  of  ripples 
laden  with  opaline  reflections  of  intermingled  glints  from  cloud  and  sky, 
and  of  the  gold  and  ruby  colored  foliage  along  its  banks. 

But  this  knoll  and  all  these  farms  are  not  mine  alone.  They  are 
such  as  I  should  hope  might  lurk  in  the  memory  of  almost  any  one  who 
looks  back  to  early  days  among  New  England  hills. 

This  old  oak-tree,  whose  furrowed  bark  I  lean  upon,  was  a  hardy  pa- 
triarch when  first  I  sought  its  shade.  Its  added  years  have  scarcely 
changed  a  feature  or  modified  a  line  in  its  old-time  noble  expression. 
As  I  look  up,  its  great  open  arms  spread  out  against  the  sky  exactly  as 
they  did  when  I  lolled  beneath  their  shelter  and  watched  the  drifting 
clouds  of  twenty  years  ago  sail  through  them  in  the  blue  above.  Even 
the  jagged  furrows  in  the  bark  I  seem  to  recognize.  Here,  too,  is  that 
same  spreading  scale  of  greenish  lichen  that  fain  will  grow  upon  the 
trunk,  as  if  I  had  not  often  picked  it  all  to  pieces  in  my  early  idling. 
The  same  round  oak-gall  rests  on  the  bed  of  leaves  in  the  hollow  between 
the  i-ocks  near  by,  as  though  it  had  forgotten  how  a  dozen  years  ago  I 
cracked   its   polished  shell   and  sent  its   spongy  contents   to   the  winds. 


96 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


And  here  comes  that  veritable  ant  creeping  through  the  grass  at  my 
elbow — now  on  the  root,  now  on  the  bark,  exploring  every  crack  and 
crevice  in  his  hurried  search,  /p?-^  I  wonder  if  the  little  fellow  will 
ever  find  what  he  has  been  /f  looking  for  so  long.     And  here's 

a  friend  of  his  coming  down.  They 
stop  and  wag  their  antennae  in  a  mo- 
ment s   conversation.      I  wonder  what 


AN    OCTOBER   DAY. 


they  said.  I  always  did  wonder  when  I  watched 
them  do  the  same  thing  on  this  very  spot  a  score 
of  years  ago.  The  soft  waving  grass  whispers 
"S**-  about  my  ears  as  it  did  then,  and  I  hear  the  low 
trumpet  of  the  nuthatch  as  he  creeps  about  in  the 
tree  o'erhead.  Easily  may  one  forget  the  lapse  of  time  in 
such  a  place  as  this,  where  every  leaf,  and  twig,  and  blade 
of  grass  conspire  to  breed  forgetfulness  of  later  years. 
Hark  !  that  shrill  tattoo  again !  The  tree-toad.  Yes,  that 
same  recluse  in  his  mysterious  hiding-place,  seeking  by  his 
tantalizing  trill  to  renew  that  game  of  hide-and-seek  we  left 
off  so  long  ago — in  those  eager  days  when  every  stick  and  stone  upon 
the  knoll  was  overturned  in  my  zeal  to  find  his  whereabouts.  There  he 
goes  afjain  !  louder  and  more  shrill.  But  now  I  realize  the  effect  of  time, 
for  I  only  sit  and  listen  to  his  oft-repeated  call.  Formerly  that  sound 
was  like  a  galvanic  thrill  that  electrified  every  nerve  and  muscle  in  my 
physiology.  No,  I'll  not  hunt  for  you  again,  my  musical  young  friend; 
besides,  the  odds  would  be  against  you  now,  for  I  know  more  about  tree- 


AUTUMN. 


97 


■Sis- 


toads  than  I  once  did,  and  you  wouldn't  see  me  hunting  on  the  ground 
as  in  the  olden  days.  Besides,  you're  getting  bold ;  there  is  no  need 
of  hunting,  for  in  that  last  toot  you  gave  yourself  away.  Even  now 
my  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  hole  in  yonder  hollow  limb,  and  I  see  your 
tiny  form  clinging  to  the  rotten  wood  within  the  opening.  What  would 
I  not  have  given  once  to  have  thought  of  that 
soggy  hole  ! 

Near  by  a  spreading  yew  monopolizes  a  rocky 
bit  of  ground,  its  foliage  creeping  above  a  silvery 
gray  bed  of  branching  moss,  whose  pillowy  tufts 
spread  almost  to  my  feet.     This  was  my  fairy 
forest  of  tiny  trees.      Here   I  found  the  fairies' 
cups  and  torches,  and  even  now  I  can  see  their 
scarlet  tips  scattered  here  and  there  among  the 
gray ;  and  fragile  little  parasols,  too — it  were 
an  insult,  indeed,  to  designate  such  dainty     J^^^ 
things    as    these   by  the   name   of 


^s^V 


}i  ,<-* 


^^MK, 


toadstools.       Beyond    this    bed    of    moss    a 
scrubby   growth   of   whortleberry   takes   pos- 
session of  the  ground.     The  bushes  are  now 
bare   of  fruit,  but   ruddy   with   their  autumn 
blushes,  tingeing  the  surface  of  the  knoll  with 

a  delicate  coral  pink.      This  thicket  extends  far  down   upon  the   slope, 
even  encroaching  upon  the  wheel-ruts  of  the  lane,  and  across  again,  until 


98  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

cut  short  by  an  ancient  tumbling  line  of  lichen-covered  stones,  a  land- 
mark which  has  long  since  yielded  up  its  claim  as  a  barrier  of  protec- 
tion to  the  old  orchard  it  encloses,  now  only  a  moss-grown  pile,  with 
every  chink  and  crevice  a  nestling-place  of  some  searching  tendril,  fern, 
or  clambering  vine.  For  rods  and  rods  it  creeps  along  beneath  the  laden 
apple-trees,  skirting  the  borders  of  this  old  farm  lane,  and  finally  hides 
away  among  a  clump  of  cedars  a  few  hundred  feet  away. 

Of  all  the  picturesque  in  nature,  what  is  there,  after  all,  that  so  wins 
one's  deeper  sympathies  as  the  ever-changing  pictures  of  a  rustic  lane 
or  roadside,  with  its  weather-beaten  walls  and  fences,  and  their  rambling 
growth  of  weeds  and  creeping  vines  ?  How  sweet  the  sense  of  near  com- 
panionship awakened  by  these  charming  way-side  pastorals  that  accom- 
pany you  in  your  saunterings,  and  reach  out  to  touch  you  as  you  pass — 
a  sense  of  friendly  fellowship  that  breathes  a  silent  greeting  in  the  most 
deserted  paths  or  loneliest  of  by-ways  ! 

Show  me  a  ruined  wall  or  a  rugged  zigzag  fence,  and  I  will  show 
you  a  string  of  pearls,  or  rather,  if  in  these  later  months,  a  fringe  of  gems, 
for  the  autumn  fence  is  set  in  wi^eaths  of  rubies  and  glowing  sapphires. 
Follow  its  rambling  course,  now  through  the  field,  now  skirting  swampy 
fallows,  now  by  rustic  lanes  and  cornfields  and  over  rocky  pastures,  and 
you  will  follow  a  lead  that  will  take  you  through  the  rarest  bits  of  nat- 
ure's autumn  landscape. 

Even  in  this  lane,  at  the  foot  of  the  knoll  below  us,  see  the  brilliant 
luxuriance  of  clustered  bitter-sweet  draping  the  side  of  that  clump  of 
cedars  !  It  is  only  an  indication  of  the  beauty  that  envelops  this  lane 
for  a  full  half  mile  beyond.  Every  angle  of  its  rude  rail  fence  encloses  a 
lovely  pastoral,  each  a  surprise  and  a  contrast  to  its  neighbor. 

Right  here  before  us,  what  a  beginning !  Hold  up  your  hands  on 
either  side,  and  shut  out  the  surroundings.  Such  is  the  glimpse  I  always 
long  to  paint  from  nature,  and  yet  how  almost  maddening  is  the  result ! 
Rather  would  I  drink  it  all  in  and  fix  its  every  feature  in  my  mind,  and 
paint  it  from  its  memory,  when  the  presence  of  the  living  thing  before 
me  shall  not  mock  my  efforts  and  put  to  shame  the  crude  creations  of 
oil  and  pigment. 

See  how  the  cool  gray  rails  are  relieved  against  that  rich  dark  back- 
ground of  dense  olive  juniper,  how  they  hide  among  the  prickly  foliage  ! 
Look  at  the  low-hanging  branch  which  so  exquisitely  conceals  the  lowest 
rail  as  it  emerges  from  its  other  side,  and  spreads  out  among  the  creep- 


AUTUMN.  99 

ing  briers  wreathing  the  ground  with  their  shining  leaves  of  crimson 
and  deep  bronze  !  Could  any  art  more  daringly  concentrate  a  rhapsody 
of  color  than  nature  has  here  done  in  bringing  up  that  gorgeous  spray 
of  scarlet  sumach,  whose  fern-like  pinnate  leaves  are  so  richly  massed 
against  its  background  of  dark  evergreens  ?  And  even  in  this  single 
branch  see  the  wondrous  gradation  of  color,  from  purest  green  to  pur- 
plish olive,  and  olive  melting  into  crimson,  and  then  to  scarlet,  and 
through  orange  into  yellow,  and  all  sustaining  in  its  midst  the  clustered 
cone  of  berries  of  rich  maroon  !  Verily,  it  were  almost  an  affront  to  sit 
down  before  such  a  shrine  and  attempt  to  match  it  in  material  pigment. 
A  passing  sketch,  perhaps,  which  shall  serve  to  aid  the  memory  in  the 
retirem.ent  of  the  studio,  but  a  careful  copy,  never !  until  we  can  have  a 
tenfold  lease  of  life,  and  paint  with  sunbeams.  But  there  is  more  still 
in  this  tantalizing  ideal,  for  a  luxuriant  wild  grape-vine,  that  shuts  in  the 
fence  near  by,  sends  toward  us  an  adventurous  branch  which  climbs  the 
upright  rail,  and  festoons  itself  from  fence  to  tree,  and  hangs  its  luminous 
canopy  over  the  crest  of  the  yielding  juniper.  Even  from  where  we  stand 
we  can  see  the  pendant  clusters  of  tiny  grapes  clearly  shadowed  against 
the  translucent  golden  screen.  Add  to  all  this  the  charm  of  life  and  mo- 
tion, with  trembling  leaves  and  branches  bending  in  the  breeze,  with  here 
and  there  a  flitting  shadow  playing  across  the  half  hidden  rails,  and  where 
can  you  find  another  such  picture,  its  counterpart  in  beauty — where  t  per- 
haps its  very  neighbor,  for  all  roadside  pictures  are  "  hung  upon  the  line," 
they  are  all  by  the  same  great  Master,  and  it  is  often  difificult  to  choose. 
Here  we  have  a  contrast.  A  dappled  rock  has  taken  possession  of 
this  little  corner,  or  the  corner  has  been  built  around  it,  if  you  choose — a 
"  gray  "  rock  we  would  call  it  in  common  parlance,  but  it  is  a  gray  com- 
posed of  a  checkered  multitude  of  tints,  colors  which  upon  a  rock,  it 
would  seem,  were  hardly  worth  an  appreciative  glance ;  but  only  let  them 
be  exhibited  upon  a  fold  of  Lyons  silk  or  Jouvin  kid  glove,  and  dignify 
them  by  the  compliments  of  "  ashes  of  roses,"  or  "  London  smoke,"  and 
how  eagerly  they  are  sought,  how  exquisite  they  become.  I  speak  in 
moderation  when  I  say  that  I  have  often  sat  and  counted  as  many  as 
thirty  just  such  tints  upon  the  surface  of  a  small  "  gray  "  rock,  each  dis- 
tinct, and  all  so  refined  and  exquisite  in  shade.  This  rounded  bowlder  is 
;no  exception ;  and  with  its  tufted  spots  of  jetty  moss,  and  outcroppings  of 
glistening  quartz,  its  rounded,  spreading  blots  of  greenish  lichens,  and 
mottled  groundwork,  it  may  well  defy  the  craft  of  the  most  skilled  palette. 

13'= 


lOO 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


And  when   these    grays    are    contrasted  with   tender 
yellow   greens    and   browns   of  fading  ferns,  such   as 
fringe  the  borders  of  the  one  before  me,  with  a  back- 
ground of  scarlet  whortleberry  bushes  and  deep-green 
sprays  of  blackberry  clustering  about  the  loos- 
ening bark  of  a  crumbling  stump,  with 
its  shelving  growth  of  fungus  hiding 
among  its  brown  debris,  one  may 
well  pause   and  wonder  which 


to  choose,  or  where  a  single 
touch  is  wanting  in  the  perfect 
unity  and  harmony  of  either. 

Another  jutting  corner,  and  we   confront 
""^     a   swaying    mass    of   gold   and   purple  —  that 
magnificent    regal    combination    of    graceful 
golden-rod  and  asters  that  glorifies  our  autumn  from 
September  to  the  falling  leaf.     There  are  a  number 
of  species   of  golden-rod,  varying  as   much   in   their 
intensity  of  color  as   in  their  time  of  bloom.     The 
earliest  appear  in  the  heart  of  summer,  in  wood  and 
meadow ;  while  others,  larger  and  more   stately,  lift 
up    in    their    midst    their    plumy,  undeveloped   tips, 
and  wait   until  their  predecessors   are   old  and  gray 
ere  they  roll  out  their  wreaths  of  gold.     For  weeks 
the  roads  and  by-ways  have  been  lit  up  with  their 
brilliant  glow,  that  parting  sunset  gleam  that  lin- 
gers  with  the   closing  year.      This   splendid  clus- 
ter is  full  six  feet  in  heioht,  and  towers  above  the 
•     highest  rail,  or  rather  where   the   rail  ought  to  be, 
for   it  is  lost  from   sight  beneath   a  dense  fret-work  of  prickly   smilax — 


AUTUMN.  lOI 

and  such  brilliant,  polished  leaves  !  how  they  glitter  in  the  sun !  almost 
as  though  wet  with  dew. 

And  to  think  how  those  prickly  canes,  denuded  of  their  leaves,  are 
sold  upon  our  city  thoroughfares  as  "  Spanish  rose-trees  "  to  the  unsus- 
pecting passer-by !  Those  guileless  venders,  too  !  I  remember  one  that 
sought  to  enrich  my  store  of  botanical  knowledge  by  telling  me  they 
"  bloomed  in  winter !"  and  had  a  flower  as  "  big  as  a  saucer,"  and  "  kinder 
like  a  holy  hawk ! ! !  ?"  I  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye,  but  he  was  the 
picture  of  innocence.  "  Can  you  tell  me  the  botanical  name,"  I  asked. 
"  Oh  yes,"  he  glibly  replied, "  I  think  they  call  it  the  Rtibiis  epistaxisT 
Eheu !  but  this  was  too  much,  and  he  saw  it,  and  with  a  wink  of  his  foxy 
eye  and  a  shrewd  grin,  he  whispered  along  the  palm  of  his  hand,  "  Got  to 
git  a  livin'  somehow,  boss  ;  now  dont  give  me  away."  "  Here  you  are,  lady, 
Spanish  roses,  lady,  fresh  from  the  steamer."  I  never  see  a  thicket  of 
green-brier  without  thinking  of  its  "  winter  blossom ;"  and,  by-the-way,  did 
you  ever  notice  a  thicket  of  this  shrub,  what  a  defiant,  arbitrary  tyrant  it 
is — shutting  out  the  very  life-breath  and  light  of  day  from  its  encumbered 
victims,  monopolizing  everything  within  its  power,  and  even  reaching  out 
for  more  with  searching  tips  in  mid-air,  and  a  couple  of  greedy  tendrils  at 
every  leaf .''  And  did  you  ever  notice  along  the  road  that  delicious  whiff 
that  comes  to  you  every  now  and  then,  that  pungent  breath  of  the  sweet- 
fern .''  We  CTCt  it  now;  the  air  is  laden  with  it  from  the  dark-o-reen  beds 
across  the  road.  The  sweet -fern,  as  I  remember  it,  was  the  simpler's 
panacea  and  the  small  boy's  joy  —  an  aromatic  shrub,  whose  inhaled 
fumes,  together  with  its  corn-silk  rival,  seem  destined  by  an  all-wise  Provi- 
dence as  a  preparatory  tonic  to  the  more  ambitious  fumigation  of  after- 
years.  Many  a  time  have  I  sat  upon  this  bank  and  tried  to  imagine  in 
my  domestic  product  the  racy  flavor  of  the  famed  Havana! 

Between  old  Aunt  Huldy,  with  her  mania  for  the  simples,  and  the 
demand  of  the  village  boys,  I  wonder  there  is  any  of  it  left.  But  Aunt 
Huldy  has  long  since  died;  all  her  "  yarbs,"  and  "yarrer  tea,"  and  "paow- 
erful  gud  stimmilants  "  could  not  give  her  the  lease  of  eternal  earthly 
life  which  she  said  lurked  in  the  "  everlastin'  flaowers ;"  and  after  she  had 
reached  the  age  of  one  hundred  and  three,  her  tansy  decoctions  and  bone- 
set  potions  ceased  in  their  efficacy — the  feeble  pulse  grew  feebler,  and  one 
winter's  eve,  sitting  in  her  rocker  by  her  kettle  and  andirons,  she  fell  into 
a  deep  sleep,  from  which  she  never  awoke.  Aunt  Huldy  was  as  strange 
and  eccentric  a  character  as  one  rarely  meets  in  the  walks  of  life.     Some 


I02 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


said  she  was  crazy ;  others  said  she  was  a  witch ;  but  whatever  she  may 
have  been,  this  aged  dame  was  picturesque  with  her  bent  figure,  her  long 
white  hair  and  scarlet  hood.  And  who  shall  describe  the  ancient  with- 
ered face  that  looked  out  from  the  shadow  of  that  hood,  the  small  gray 

eyes  and  heavy  white  eyebrows, 
the  toothless  jaws  and  receding 
lips,  and  massive  chin  that  made 
its    appalling    ascent    acioss    the 


IN   THE   CORNFIELD 


face  ?  But  I  cannot  describe  that  face  : 
think  of  how  a  witch  should  look,  and  old  Hul- 
dy's  features  will  rise  up  before  you.  She  knew 
every  herb  that  grew,  but  her  great  stand-by  was  "sweet- 
fern  :"  she  smoked  it,  she  chewed  it,  she  drank  it,  and  even 
wore  a  little  bag  of  it  around  her  neck,  "  to  charm  away  the  rheumatiz." 
-Since  her  time,  however,  the  sweet-fern  has  had  a  chance  to  recuperate, 
and,  as  far  as  we  can  see  along  the  road,  the  banks  are  covered  with  it ; 
and  there's  a  clump  of  teazles  in  its  midst !  I  wonder  if  that  old  carding- 
mill  still  stands.     You  also,  perhaps,  will  wonder  what  relation  can  exist 


AUTUMN.  103 

between  the  two,  that  should  make  my  thoughts  jump  half  a  mile  at  the 
sight  of  a  roadside  weed.  But  that  old  woollen-mill  offered  a  premium  on 
the  extermination  of  one  weed  at  least,  for  all  the  teasels  of  the  neighbor- 
hood were  required  to  keep  its  cloth  brushes  in  thorough  repair ;  but  I 
fear  its  buzzing  wheels  are  silent,  for  in  olden  times  no  such  splendid 
clump  as  this  could  have  remained  to  go  to  seed  upon  the  highway. 
This  old  mill  lies  right  upon  our  path,  only  a  short  walk  down  the  road 
beyond.  It  nestles  among  a  bower  of  willows  in  a  picturesque  ravine 
known  as  the  "  Devil's  Hollow  " — an  umbrageous,  rocky  glen,  by  far  too 
cool  and  comfortable  a  place  to  justify  the  name  it  bears. 

Following  the  road,  we  now  descend  into  a  long,  low  stretch,  hedged 
in  between  two  tall  banks  of  alder,  overtopped  with  interwoven  tangles  of 
clematis,  with  its  cloudy  autumn  clusters — that  graceful  vine  which,  like 
the  dandelion,  is  even  more  beautiful  in  death  than  in  the  fulness  of  its 
bloom.  And  so,  indeed,  are  nearly  all  those  plants  whose  final  state  is 
thus  endowed  by  nature  with  feathery  wings  to  lift  them  from  the  earth. 

When  has  this  swamp  milk -weed  by  the  roadside  looked  so  fair  as 
now,  with  its  bursting  pods  and  silky  seeds — those  little  waifs  thrown  out 
upon  the  world  with  every  passing  breeze.  How  tenderly  they  seem  to 
cling  to  the  little  cosy  home  where  they  have  been  so  snugly  cradled  and 
protected;  and  see  how  they  sail  away,  two  or  three  together,  loth  to  part, 
until  some  rude  gust  shall  separate  them  forever. 

And  here's  the  great  spiny  thistle,  too,  that  armed  highwayman  with 
florid  face  and  pompon  in  his  cap.  But  he  has  had  his  day,  and  now  we 
see  him  old  and  seedy;  his  spears  are  broken,  and  his  silvery  gray  hairs 
are  floating  everywhere  and  glistening  in  the  sun. 

Now  we  leave  the  alders,  and  another  roadside  mosaic  of  rich  color 
opens  up  befoi-e  us,  where  the  old  half -wall  fence,  with  its  overtopping 
rails,  is  luminous  with  a  crimson  glow  of  ampelopsis.  It  covers  all  the 
stones  for  yards  and  yards ;  it  swings  from  every  jutting  rail ;  it  clambers 
up  the  tree  trunks  and  envelops  them  in  fire,  and  hangs  its  waving  fringe 
from  all  the  branches. 

Above  the  wall,  like  an  encampment  of  thatched  wigwams,  the  corn- 
shocks  lift  their  heads ;  a  prospecting  colony  encamped  among  a  field 
rich  with  outcroppings  of  gold — a  wealth  of  great  round  nuggets  all  in 
sight.  And  were  we  to  tear  away  that  thatch,  we  might  see  where  they 
have  stowed  away  their  accumulated  grains  of  wealth.  We  hear  their 
rustling  whispers:  "  Hush!  hush!"  they  seem  to  say  to  each  other  as  we 


I04  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

approach ;  but  their  wariness  is  gratuitous,  for  a  tell-tale  vine  is  creeping 
away  upon  the  fence  near-by,  and  has  stopped  to  rest  its  golden  burden  on 
the  summit  of  the  wall,  half  hiding  among  the  scarlet  creepers. 

Here  yellow  brakes  abound,  spreading  their  broad,  triangular  fronds  on 
every  side  amid  the  brilliant  berries  of  wild-rose,  and  pink  leaves  of  blue- 
berry. And  here  are  thickets  of  black-alder,  where  every  twig  is  studded 
with  scarlet  beads,  that  cling  so  close  that  even  winter's  bluster  cannot 
shake  them  off.  No  matter  where  we  look  in  these  October  days,  nature 
is  burning  itself  away  in  a  blaze  of  color  that  dazzles  the  eyes ;  and  now 
we  approach  its  very  crowning  touch. 

I  wish  every  one  might  see  this  gorgeous  combination  of  oak  and 
maples  ;  see  it  and  go  no  farther,  for  a  further  search  were  fruitless  in 
finding  its  equal.  It  is  the  pride  of  the  entire  community ;  towns-people 
and  visitors  ride  from  miles  around  to  see  its  final  flush — a  magnificent 
climax  in  the  way  of  concentration  of  vivid  color,  in  which  nature  seems 
to  have  grouped  with  distinct  purpose  and  design,  producing  a  piece 
of  natural  landscape-gardening  such  as  no  art  could  have  approached. 
The  background  is  a  massive  precipice  of  rock  towering  to  the  height 
of  eighty  feet,  itself  a  perfect  medley  of  tone. 

The  group  is  composed  of  eight  maples,  each  a  distinct  contrast  of 
pure  color.  In  their  midst  a  superb  large  oak  presents  one  massive 
breadth  of  deep  purple  green ;  and  spreading  up  one  side  like  a  flood  of 
yellow  light,  a  rock-maple  lifts  its  splendid  array  of  foliage.  These  two 
trees  concentrate  the  effect,  and  the  others  are  arranged  around  them  like 
colors  on  a  palette :  one  is  a  flaming  scarlet,  another  beside  it  is  always  a 
rich  green,  even  to  the  falling  leaf — with  only  a  single  branch,  that  every 
year,  even  as  early  as  August,  persists  in  turning  to  a  peculiar  salmon 
pink;  another,  a  red-maple,  is  so  deep  a  red  as  to  appear  almost  maroon, 
and  its  branches  intermingle  with  the  pale-pink  verdure  of  another  grow- 
ing by  its  side.  There  is  one  that  combines  every  intermediate  color, 
from  deep  crimson  to  the  palest  saffron ;  while  its  neighbor  flutters  in  the 
wind  with  every  leaf  a  brilliant  butterfly  of  pure  green,  with  spots  and 
splashes  of  deep  carmine. 

This  whole  assemblage  of  color  fairly  blazes  in  the  landscape,  and 
even  from  the  top  of  Mount  Pisgah,  a  half  a  mile  away,  it  looks  like  a 
glowing  coal  dropped  down  upon  a  bed  of  smouldering  ashes  in  the 
valley ;  for  the  surrounding  meadow  is  thick-set  with  great  gray  rocks 
and   crimson   viburnum,  as   though  it  had  caught  fire  from  the  flaming 


AUTUMN. 


105 


trees.  What  other  country  can  boast  the  glory  of  a  tree  which,  taken  all 
in  all,  can  hold  its  own  beside  our  lovely  maple  ?  From  the  time  when 
first  it  hangs  its  silken  tassels  to  the  awakening  spring  breeze  until  its 
autumn  fire  has  burned  away  its  leaves,  it  presents  an  everchanging  phase 
that  lends  a  distinct  expression  to  American  landscape.  It  affords  us 
grateful  shade  in  summer  ;  and  with  its  trickling  bounty  in  the  spring 
we  can  all  unite  in  a  hearty  toast,  "xA.  health  to  the  glorious  maple." 


THE    ROAD    TO    THE    MILL. 


But  there  is  another  tree  which  should  not  be  forgotten,  and  if  once 
seen  in  a  New  England  autumn  landscape  there  is  little  danger  of  its 
escaping  from  the  memory.  Of  course,  I  refer  to  the  pepperidge,  or 
tupelo,  that  nondescript  among  trees ;  for  who  ever  saw  two  pepperidge- 
trees  alike .''  They  seem  to  scorn  a  reputation  for  symmetry,  or  even  the 
idea  of  establishing  among  themselves  the  recognition  of  a  type  of  char- 
acter. Novelty  or  grotesqueness  is  their  only  aim,  and  they  hit  the  bulls- 
eye  every  time.  There  is  one  I  have  in  mind  that  has  always  been  a 
perfect  curiosity.  Its  height  is  fully  seventy  feet,  and  its  crown  is  as  flat 
as  though  cut  off  with  a  mammoth  pair  of  pruning-shears.  The  central 
trunk  runs  straight  up  to  the  summit,  from  which  it  squirms  off  into  six 
or  seven  snake-like  branches,  that  dip  downward  and  writhe  among  the 
other  limbs,  all  falling  in  the  same  direction.  One  gets  the  impression, 
14 


Io6  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

on  looking  at  it,  that  originally  it  might  have  been  a  respectable-looking 
tree,  but  that  in  some  rude  storm  in  its  early  days  it  had  been  struck  by 
lightning,  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  afterward  had  taken  root  at  the  top. 
The  tupelo,  whenever  seen,  is  always  one  of  our  most  picturesque  trees, 
and  a  never-failing  source  of  surprise,  twisting  and  turning  into  some 
unheard-of  shape,  and  seeming  always  to  say,  "  There  !  beat  that  if  you 
can  !"  Near  the  coast  it  assumes  the  form  of  a  crazy  Italian  pine,  with 
spindling  trunk  and  massive  head  of  foliage.  Sometimes  it  divides  in  the 
middle,  like  an  hour-glass,  and  again  mimics  a  fir-tree  in  caricature ;  but 
he  who  would  keep  track  of  the  acrobatic  capers  of  the  tupelo  would 
have  his  hands  full.  Whatever  its  shape,  however,  its  brilliant,  glossy 
crimson  foliage  forms  one  of  the  most  striking  features  of  our  October 
landscape. 

But  I  believe  we  were  on  the  road  to  that  cardin2;-mill.  We  had 
almost  forgotten  it ;  and  now,  as  we  look  ahead,  we  see  the  old  lumber- 
shed  that  marks  the  upper  ledge  of  Devil's  Hollow.  From  this  old  shed 
a  trout-brook  plunges  through  a  series  of  rocky  terraces,  now  winding 
among  prostrate  moss-grown  trunks,  now  gurgling  through  the  bare  roots 
of  great  white  birches,  or  spreading  in  a  swift,  glassy  sheet  as  it  pours 
across  some  broad  shelving  rock,  and  plunges  from  its  edge  in  a  filmy 
water-fall.  It  roars  pent  up  in  narrow  canons,  and  out  again  it  swirls  in 
a  smooth  basin  worn  in  the  solid  rock.  At  almost  every  rod  or  two 
along  its  precipitous  course  there  is  a  mill  somewhere  hid  among  the 
trees — queer,  quaint  little  mills,  some  built  up  on  high  stone  walls,  oth- 
ers fed  with  trickling  flumes  which  span  from  rock  to  rock,  supporting 
on  every  beam  a  rounded  cushion  of  velvety  green  moss,  and  hanging 
a  fringe  of  ferns  from  almost  every  crevice.  And  one  there  is  in  ruins, 
fallen  from  its  lofty  perch,  and  piled  in  chaos  in  the  stream.  There  are 
saw-mills,  and  shook-mills,  and  carding-mills,  seven  altogether  in  this  one 
descent  of  about  three  hundred  feet.  The  water  enters  the  ravine  as 
pure  as  crystal ;  but  in  its  wild  booming  through  race-ways,  dams,  and 
water-wheels,  it  gradually  assumes  a  rich  sienna  hue  from  the  debris  of 
sawdust  everywhere  along  its  course.  The  interior  of  the  ravine  is 
musical  with  the  trebles  of  the  falling  water  and  the  accompaniment  of 
the  rumbling  mills.  Tiny  rainbows  gleam  beneath  the  water-falls,  and 
swarms  of  glistening  bubbles  and  little  islands  of  saffron-colored  foam 
float  away  upon  the  dark-brown  eddies. 

At  last  we  reach  the  carding-mill,  which  is  the  lowest  of  them  all — in 


AUTUMN. 


107 


every  sense,  it  seems,  for  it  is  as  I  had  feared :  the  flume  is  but  a  pile  of 
brown  and  mouldy  timbers  in  the  bed  of  the  stream,  and  the  old  box- 
wheel  has   rotted  and  fallen  from  its  spokes,  almost  obscured  beneath  a 

^       rank  growth  of  weeds.     No  sound  of  buzzing 

S^^  ^^    teasels,  no  rumbling  of  the  water- 

-/>.«?  ^5^ -^^^-^-'^     —  wheel,  no  haiDpv  carder  sing- 


ing  at  his  work :  nothing — but  a  couple  of  boys, 

kneeling  in  a  corner,  sucking  cider  through  a  straw. 

Yes,  the  old  mill  has  fallen  from  grace  ;  but  what  else  might  one  expect 

from  a  mill  in  "  Devil's  Hollow,"  where  all  its  neighbors  are  engaged  in 

making  hogshead  staves,  and  the  very  water  has  turned  to  ruddy  wine  ? 

The  carding-machine  is  gone,  and  has  given  place  to  a  rustic  cider- 
press.  A  temporary  undershot-wheel  has  been  rigged  beneath  the  floor, 
and  a  rude  trough,  patched  up  with  sods,  conducts  the  water  from  the 
stream. 


Io8  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

It  is  the  same  old  cider-press  we  all  remember,  and  with  the  same 
accessories.  Here  are  casks  of  all  sizes  waiting  to  be  filled,  and  the  piles 
of  party-colored  apples  spilled  upon  the  floor  from  the  farmers'  wagons 
that  every  now  and  then  back  up  to  the  open  door.  There  is  the  same 
rustic  harangue  on  leading  agricultural  topics,  among  which  we  hear  a 
variety  of  opinions  about  that  imaginary  "  line  storm." 

"  Seems  to  gi'n  the  slip  this  year,"  remarks  one  old  long-limbed  settler 
with  a  slope-roofed  straw  hat,  "  'n'  I  don't  know  zactly  what  to  make  on't ; 
but  I  ain't  so  sartin  nuther" — he  now  takes  a  wise  observation  of  a  small 
patch  of  blue  sky  through  the  trees  overhead.  "  I  cal'late  we'll  git  a  leetle 
tetch  on't  yit." 

"  Likenuff,  likenuff,"  responds  another,  with  a  squeaky  voice  ;  "  the  ar's 
gittin'  ruther  dampish,  'n'  my  woman  hez  got  the  rheumatiz  ag'in.  She 
kin  alluz  tell  when  we're  goin'  to  git  a  spell  o'  weather ;  it's  sure  to  fetch 
her  all  along  her  spine.  But  I  lay  most  store  on  them  ar  pesky  tree-tuds. 
I  heern  um  singin'  like  all  possessed  ez  I  wuz  comin'  through  the  woods 
yender ;  'n'  it's  a  sartin  sign  o'  rain  when  them  ar  critters  gits  agoin',  you 
kin  depend  on't." 

And  now  we  hear  all  about  the  pumpkin  and  the  corn  crop,  the 
potato  yield,  and  the  regular  list  of  other  subjects  so  dear  to  the  rural 
heart. 

In  a  corner  by  themselves  we  see  the  pile  of  "vinegar  nubbins" — a 
tanned  and  soft  variety  of  apple — in  all  stages  of  variegation.  The  "  hop- 
per" receives  the  shovelfuls  of  fruit  for  the  crushing  "  smasher,"  which 
again  supplies  the  straw-laid  press.  We  hear  the  creaking  turn  of  the 
lever  screw,  the  yielding  of  the  timbers,  and  a  fresh  burst  of  the  trickling 
beverage  flowing  from  the  surrounding  trough  into  the  great  wooden  tub 
below.  Here,  too,  is  the  swarm  of  eager  urchins,  with  heads  together,  like 
a  troop  of  flies  around  a  grain  of  sugar.  Ah !  what  unalloyed  bliss  is  re- 
flected from  their  countenances  as  they  absorb  the  amber  nectar  through 
the  intermediate  straw — that  golden  link  that  I  have  missed  for  many  a 
year  ! 

Outside  upon  the  logs  the  refuse  "pumice-cheese"  has  brought  to- 
gether all  the  yellow-jackets  and  late  butterflies  of  the  neighborhood — 
butterflies  so  tipsy  that  you  can  pick  them  up  between  your  fingers.  I 
never  went  so  far  with  the  yellow-jackets,  for  they  have  a  hotter  temper, 
and  don't  like  to  be  fooled  with.  Black  hornets,  too,  are  here,  and  they 
find  a  feast  spread  at  their  very  door;  for  overhead,  upon  the  beech,  they 


AUTUMN. 


109 


'  THE   LINE   STORM 


have   hung   their   paper  house,  like   a  gray   balloon   caught    among    the 
branches. 

Now  we  hear  a  chatter  and  a  scratching  on  the  roof,  where  a  pair  of 
lively  squirrels  hold  a  game  of  tag;  and  ascending  the  rickety  stairs  into 
the  loft  above,  we  find  the  floor  strewn  with  hickory-nuts,  with  neat  round 


no  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

holes  cut  through  on  either  side,  and  numberless  shaggy  butternuts,  too, 
with  daylight  let  into  their  recesses  also.  The  boards  and  beams  are 
covered  with  cobweb  trimmings,  laden  with  wool-dust ;  and  as  we  ap- 
proach a  pile  of  rusty  iron  near  the  murky  window,  we  hear  a  scraping 
of  sharp  claws,  the  dropping  of  a  nut  between  the  rafters,  and  now  a  wild 
scampering  on  the  roof  overhead.  Before  we  have  fairly  recovered  from 
our  surprise,  we  notice  a  sudden  darkening  of  a  hole  in  the  shingles  close 
by,  where,  still  and  motionless,  two  inquisitive  black  eyes  look  down  at 
us.  We  have  intruded  upon  private  property,  for  this  is  the  home  of  the 
squirrels.  No  one  can  dispute  their  title,  for  these  little  squatters  have 
occupied  the  premises  and  held  the  fort  for  nearly  twenty  years. 

They,  too,  have  found  forage  close  at  hand,  from  the  nut-grove  upon 
the  hill-side  yonder — a  yellow  bank  of  foliage  of  clustered  hickories  and 
beeches,  and  rounded  domes  of  chestnuts — a  grove  whose  every  rock  and 
bush  is  my  old-time  friend;  where  there  are  "sermons  in  stones,"  and 
every  tree  speaks  volumes. 

Here  is  the  low  thicket  of  weeds  and  hazel-bushes  where  we  always 
flushed  that  flock  of  quail,  or  started  up  some  lively  white-tailed  hare  that 
jumped  away  among  the  quivering  brakes  and  golden-rod.  Here  are  soft 
beds  of  rich  green  moss,  studded  with  scarlet  berries  of  winter-green  and 
partridge-vine.  Now  we  come  upon  a  creeping  mat  of  princess-pine,  and 
here  among  the  leaves  we  had  almost  stepped  upon  a  spreading  chestnut- 
burr — that  same  burr  I  have  so  often  seen  before,  that  same  fuzzy,  open 
palm  holding  out  its  tempting  bait  to  lure  the  eagerness  of  youth ;  an 
eagerness  which  always  invested  a  neighbor's  chestnuts  with  a  peculiar 
charm  too  temjDting  to  resist ;  "  take  one,"  it  seems  to  say,  as  it  did  in 
years  ago ;  and  its  hedge  of  thorny  prickles  truly  typifies  the  dangers 
which  surrounded  such  an  undertaking,  for  these  trees  belong  to  Deacon 
Turney,  and  he  prizes  them  as  though  their  yellow  autumn  leaves  were  so 
much  gold.  He  guards  them  with  an  eagle's  eye,  and  he  gathers  all  their 
harvest ;  no  single  nut  is  ever  known  to  sprout  in  Turney's  woods  if  he 
knows  it. 

This  pointed  reminder  among  the  leaves  fairly  pricks  my  conscience 
as  I  recall  the  many  October  escapades  in  which  it  formed  the  chief 
attraction.  I  remember  one  occasion  in  particular,  for  it  is  indelibly 
impressed  on  my  memory,  and  it  was  on  this  very  spot.  A  party  of 
adventurous  lads,  myself  among  the  number,  were  out  for  a  glorious  holi- 
day.    Each  had  liis  canvas  bag  across  his  shoulder,  and  we  stole  along  the 


AUTUMN. 


1 1 1 


w^^-^ 


« 

y^.' 


„v.^^^ 


!'.■ 
'O' 


stone  wall  yonder,  and  entered  the  woods  beneath  that 
group  of  chestnuts.  Two  of  us  acted  as  outposts  on 
picket  guard ;  and  another,  young  Teddy  Shoopegg  by 
name,  the  best  climber  in  the  village,  did  the  shaking. 
He  prided  himself  on  being  able  to  "  shin  up  any  tree 
in  the  caounty,"  and  after  he  had  once  got  up  among 
those  chestnut-trees  we  stood  from  under,  and  in  a 
very  short  space  of  time  no  single  burr  was  left 
among  their  branches.  There  were  five  busy  pairs 
of  hands  beneath  those  trees,  I  can  tell  you,  for  each 
one  of  us  fully  realized  the  necessity  of  making  the 
most  of  his  time,  not  knowing  how  soon  the  warning 
cry  from  our  outposts  might  put  us  all  to  headlong 
flight ;  for  the  alarm,  "  Turney's  coming  !"  was  enough 
to  lift  the  hair  of  any  boy  in  town. 

But   luck    seemed   to    favor    us    on    that  day ;    we 
"cleaned  out"  six  big  chestnut-trees, 
and  then  turned  our  attention  to 
the   hickories.      There   was    a 
splendid  tall  shagbark  close 
by,  with    branches    fairly 
loaded    with    the 


A   POINTED   REMINDER. 


112  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

white  nuts  in  their  open  shucks.  They  were  all  ready  to  drop,  and  when 
the  shalving  once  commenced,  the  nuts  came  down  like  a  shower  of  hail, 
bounding  from  the  rocks,  rattling  among  the  dry  leaves,  and  keeping  up  a 
clatter  all  around.  We  scrambled  on  all  fours,  and  gathered  them  by 
quarts  and  quarts.  There  was  no  need  of  poking  over  the  leaves  for 
them,  the  ground  was  covered  with  them  in  plain  sight.  While  busily ' 
engaged,  we  noticed  an  ominous  lull  among  the  branches  overhead. 

" 'Sst !  'sst!"  whispered  Shoopegg  up  above;  "  I  see  old  Turney  on  his 
white  horse  daown  the  road  yender." 

"  Coming  this  way .?"  also  in  a  whisper,  from  below. 

"  I  dunno  yit,  but  I  jest  guess  you'd  better  be  gittin'  reddy  to  leg  it,  fer 
he's  hitchin'  his  old  nag  't  the  side  o'  the  road.  Yis,  sir,  I  bleeve  he's 
a-cummin'.  Shoopegg,  you'd  better  be  gittin'  aout  o'  this,"  and  he  com- 
menced to  drop  hap-hazard  from  his  lofty  perch.  In  a  moment,  however, 
he  seemed  to  change  his  mind,  and  paused,  once  more  upon  the  watch. 
"  Say,  fellers,"  he  again  broke  in,  as  we  were  preparing  for  a  retreat, "  he's 
gone  off  to'rd  the  cedars ;  he  ain't  cummin'  this  way  at  alir  So  he  again 
ascended  into  the  tree-top,  and  finished  his  shaking  in  peace,  and  we  our 
picking  also.  There  was  still  another  tree,  with  elegant  large  nuts,  that 
we  had  all  concluded  to  "  finish  up  on."  It  would  not  do  to  leave  it. 
They  were  the  largest  and  thinnest-shelled  nuts  in  town,  and  there  were 
over  a  bushel  in  sight  on  the  branch  tips.  Shoopegg  was  up  among  them 
in  two  minutes,  and  they  were  showered  down  in  torrents  as  before.  And 
what  splendid,  perfect  nuts  they  were !  We  bagged  them  with  eager 
hands,  picked  the  ground  all  clean,  and,  with  jolly  chuckles  at  our  luck, 
were  just  about  thinking  of  starting  for  home  with  our  well-rounded  sacks, 
when  a  change  came  over  the  spirit  of  our  dreams.  There  was  a  sus- 
picious noise  in  the  shrubbery  near  by,  and  in  a  moment  more  we  heard 
our  doom. 

"  Jest  yeu  look  ^^ah,  yeu  boys !"  exclaimed  a  high-pitched  voice  from 
the  neighboring  shrubbery,  accompanied  by  the  form  of  Deacon  Turney, 
approaching  at  a  brisk  pace,  hardly  thirty  feet  away.  "  Don't  yeu  think 
yeu've  got  jest  abaout  ciuiff  o'  them  nuts  ?" 

Of  course  a  wild  panic  ensued,  in  which  we  made  for  the  bags  and 
dear  life  ;  but  Turney  was  prepared  and  ready  for  the  emergency,  and, 
raising  a  huge  old  shot-gun,  he  levelled  it,  and  yelled,  "  Don't  any  on  ye 
stir  ner  move,  or  by  Christopher  I'll  blow  the  beds  clean  off'n  the  hull 
pzk  on  ye.     I'd  s/iooi  ye  quicker'n  lightninr 


AUTUMN. 


113 


And  we  believed  him,  for  his  aim  was  true,  and  Iiis  whole  expres- 
sion was  not  that  of  a  man  who  was  trifling.  I  never  shall  forget  the 
uncomfortable  sensation  that  I  experienced  as  I  looked  into  the  muzzle 
of  that  double-barrelled  shot-gun,  and  saw  both  hammers  fully  raised 

too.     And  I  can  clearly  see  now  the  squint  and 

the   glaring  eye   that  glanced  along  those  barrels. 

There  was  a  wonderfully  persuasive  power  lurking 

in  those  horizontal  tubes  ;   so   I  at  once  hastened 

to   inform   the   deacon  that  we  were  "  not  going 

to  run." 

"  Waal,"  he  drawled,  "  it  looked  a  leetle   thet 
zvay,  I  thort,  a  spell  ago  T  ai^d  he  still  kept  us  in 
the  field  of  his  weapon,  till  at  length  I  exclaimed, 
in  desperation, 

"  For  gracious   sake  !   point   that  gun   in 
some  other  way.,  will  you  ?" 

"  Wa'al,  no!     I'm  not  fer  pintin"  it  enny- 

whar  else  jest  yit — not  until  you've  sot  them 

ar  bags  daown  agin,  jist  whar  ye  got  'em,  every 

one  on  ye."    The  bags  were  speedily  replaced, 

and  he  slowly  lowered  his  gun. 


AFTER   THE   SHELL-BARKS. 


"  Wa'al,  naow,"  he  continued,  as  he  came  up  in  our  midst,  "  this  is 
putty  bizniss,  aint  it  ?  Bin  havin'  a  putty  likely  sort  o'  time  teu,  I  sh'd 
jedge  from  the  looks  o'  these  'ere  bags.  One  —  two  —  six  on  'em;  an' 
I  vaow  they  must  be  nigh  on  teu  a  half  bushel  in  every  pleggy  07te 
on  'em.  Wa'al,  naow" — with  his  peculiar  drawl — "look  ^^ah  :  you're  a 
15 


114  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

putty  cndustrious  lot  o'  thieves,  I'm  blest  if  ye  ain't."  But  the  deacon  did 
all  the  talking,  for  his  manoeuvres  were  such  as  to  render  us  speechless. 
"  Putty  likely  place  teu  cum  a-nuttin',  ain't  it .?"  Pause.  "  Putty  nice 
mess  o'  shell-barks  ye  got  thar,  I  tell  ye  naow. — Quite  a  sight  o'  chest- 
nuts  in  yotini,  ain't  they  V 

There  was  only  one  spoken  side  to  this  dialogue,  but  the  pauses  were  ' 
eloquent  on  both  sides,  and  we  boys  kept  up  a  deal  of  tall  thinking  as 
we  watched  the  deacon  alternate  his  glib  remarks  by  the  gradual  removal 
of  the  bags  to  the  foot  of  a  neighboring  tree.     This  done,  he  seated  him- 
self upon  a  rock  beside  them. 

"  Thar  /"  he  exclaimed,  removing'  his  tall  hat  and  wiping  his  white- 
fringed  forehead  with  a  red  bandanna  handkerchief.  "  I'm  much  obleeged. 
I've  been  a-watchin'  on  ye  gittin'  these  'ere  nuts  the  hull  arternoon.  I 
thort  ez  haow  yeu  might  like  to  know  on't."  And  then,  as  though  a 
happy  thought  had  struck  him,  what  should  he  do  but  deliberately  spit 
on  his  hands  and  grasp  his  gun.  "  Look  f<?ah " — a  pause,  in  which  he 
cocked  both  barrels — "yeu  boys  wuz  paowerful  anxyis  teu  git  away  from 
^^ah  a  spell  ago.  Naow  yeu  kin  git  ez  lively  ez  yeu  pleze ;  your  chores 
is  done  fer  to-day."  And  bang !  went  one  of  the  gun-barrels  directly  over 
our  heads. 

We  got,  and  when  once  out  of  gun-range  we  paid  the  deacon  a  wealth 
of  those  rare  compliments  for  both  eye  and  ear  that  always  swell  the 
boys'  vocabulary. 

"  All  right,"  he  yelled  back  in  answer,  as  he  transported  the  bags 
across  the  field.  "  Cum  agin  next  year — cum  agin.  Alluz  welcome  ! 
alluz  welcome  !" 

As  I  have  already  said,  the  deacon  gathered  all  his  nut  harvest — 
sometimes  by  a  very  novel  method. 

Who  does  not  remember  some  such  episode  of  the  old  jolly  days  ? 
If  it  was  not  a  Deacon  Turney,  it  was  some  one  else.  I  am  sure  his 
counterpart  exists  in  every  country  town,  and  in  the  memory  of  every 
boyhood  experience. 

We  remember,  perhaps,  the  sweet  hazel-nuts  which  we  gathered  in 
their  brown  husks  and  spread  to  dry  upon  the  garret  floor,  and  how  those 
mischievous  mice  avenged  the  deacon's  wrongs  as  they  invaded  our  treas- 
ured store,  and  transported  it  to  the  nooks  and  kinks  among  the  rafters 
and  beneath  the  floor.  Then  there  were  those  rambles  after  "  fox-grapes," 
and  the  "  gunning"  tramps,  when  we  stole  with  cautious  step  upon  the 


AUTUMN. 


115 


unseen  "  Bob  White "  whistling  for  us  among  the  brush  near  by,  when 
the  startling  whirr  of  the  ruffed  grouse  from  almost  under  our  feet  sent 
an  electric  thrill  up  our  backs  and  along  our  arms,  even  touching  off  the 
powder  in  our  barrels  unawares.  There  were  box-traps  in  the  woods, 
and  snares  among  the  copses,  and  lots  of  other  mischief  of  which  we 
would  not  care  to  tell. 

There  was  another  little  three-cornered  nut  that  fell  among  the  beech- 
trees  where  we  held  our  October  picnics,  and  the  autumn  beech  forest  I 
remember  as  a  lovely  woodland  parlor.     We  sit  upon  a  painted  rock,  in 


A   CORNER   OF   THE   FARM. 


the  shadow  of  a  drooping  hemlock,  perhaps.  Beyond,  we  look  across 
among  the  smooth  gray  tree-trunks,  where  sidelong  shadows  softly  stripe 
the  matted  leaves,  with  here  and  there  a  shining  shaft  of  sunbeam  light- 
ing up  the  carpet,  or  a  glinting  spray  of  sun-tipped  leaves  that  flicker 
above  their  shadows.  The  woods  are  filled  with  a  luminous  glow  such 
as  no  summer  forest  ever  knew  —  an  all -pervading  light  which  seems 
almost  independent  of  the  sunshine,  as  though  living  in  the  leaf  itself. 
It  floods  the  mottled  bark,  and  transforms  its  ashy  tints  to  softened  au- 
tumn grays.     It  searches  out  the  shadows  of  the  evergreens,  and  throws 


Il6  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

its  mellow  glow  upon  the  rocks  among  their  recesses.  It  permeates  the 
whole  interior  as  though  it  were  transfigured  through  a  golden-colored 
glass. 

A  quick,  sharp  whistle  surprises  you  from  the  herbage  near  by,  and  a 
striped  chickaree  skips  across  the  leaves  and  dives  into  his  burrow  at  the 
foot  of  an  old  stump  not  far  away.  There  are  various  other  sounds  that 
come  to  you  if  you  sit  quietly  in  a  beech  wood.  Now  it  is  a  tiny  footfall, 
a  pat-pat  upon  the  leaves,  and  a  little  brown  bird  is  seen,  hopping  in  and 
out  among  the  undergrowth,  scratching  and  pecking  like  a  little  hen 
among  the  leaf  mould.  Then  comes  a  galloping  sound,  and  you  know 
there  is  a  scampering  hare  somewhere  about.  And  at  last  a  peeping 
frog  gains  confidence,  and  starts  up  a  trill  somewhere  behind  you.  He 
is  soon  joined  by  another,  and  still  others,  until  a  chorus  of  the  shrill 
voices  echoes  among  the  trees,  some  from  the  ground,  some  from  the 
limbs  overhead ;  and  if  you  only  sit  perfectly  still,  you  may  hear  a  vent- 
uresome voice,  perhaps,  at  your  very  elbow ;  for  these  little  peepers  are 
capricious  songsters,  and  only  sing  before  a  quiet,  attentive  audience. 
Now  a  silly  green  katydid  flits  by,  Hke  an  animated  gauzy  leaf ;  and 
quick  as  thought  a  kingbird  darts  out  from  the  leaves  overhead,  hovers 
in  mid-air  for  a  second,  and  is  away  again  ;  and  luckless  katydid  wishes 
she  hadnt. 

See  the  variety  of  beeches,  too !  Here  are  slender,  dappled  stems, 
clean  and  trim ;  and  others,  great  giants  with  fluted  trunks  and  gnarled 
roots,  and  with  eccentric  limbs  reaching  out  in  most  fantastic  angles ;  but 
all  spreading  above  in  a  graceful,  airy  screen  of  intermingled  tracery  and 
sunlight,  where  slender  branches  bend  and  sway  beneath  the  agile  squirrel 
as  he  leaps  from  tree  to  tree,  and  the  leaves  clatter  with  the  falling  nuts. 
Behind  us  a  soft  fluttering  of  many  wings  betrays  a  slender  mountain-ash, 
with  its  drooping  clusters  of  berries,  growing  in  an  open,  rocky  space  near 
by — where  a  flock  of  cedar  birds  assemble  among  the  fruit,  or  scatter 
away  amid  the  evergreens  at  your  slightest  movement.  Turning  your 
head  in  another  direction,  you  can  follow  the  course  of  an  old  farm-road 
that  leads  out  upon  a  bright  clearing,  thick-set  with  light-green,  feathery 
ferns.  A  few  rods  beyond,  it  makes  a  sudden  downward  turn  through  a 
dense  grove  of  lofty  pines  and  hemlocks.  Here  are  "  dim  aisles  "  where 
dwell  perpetual  twilight — where  no  ray  of  sun  has  entered  for  well-nigh  a 
century — only,  perhaps,  as  it  is  brought  down  in  a  glistening  sunbeam 
within  the  crystal  bead  of  balsam  upon  some  dropping  cone.     There  is  a 


AUTUMN.  117 

solemn  stillness  in  these  stately  halls,  in  which  your  very  footfall  is  pro- 
scribed and  hushed  in  the  depths  of  the  brown  and  silent  carpet.  There 
are  old,  venerable  gray-beards  here,  and  fallen  monarchs  lying  prostrate 
among  the  rugged  rocks ;  and  here  and  there  among  the  brown  debris 
a  fungus  lifts  its  head,  to  tell  of  other  generations  that  lie  crumbling 
beneath  the  mould.  Now  among  the  lofty  columns,  like  a  magnificent 
illuminated  window  in  some  vast  cathedral,  comes  a  glimpse  of  the  outer 
world  with  its  autumn  colors ;  and  here  the  vaulted  aisle  soon  leads  us. 
We  find  a  dazzling  contrast ;  for  in  the  sombre  shadows  of  the  pine-forest 
one  readily  forgets  the  month,  or  even  the  season.  Here  we  approach  a 
rippling  trout-stream,  and  as  we  stop  to  rest  upon  its  tottering  bridge  we 
look  across  a  long  brook  meadow,  where  the  asters  screen  the  ground 
in  mid-air  in  a  purple  sea — one  of  the  rarest  spectacles  of  autumn.  But 
in  this  swamp  lot  there  are  presented  a  continual  series  of  just  such  rich 
displays  from  spring-time  till  the  winter. 

I  know  of  no  other  place  in  which  the  progress  of  the  year  is  so  read- 
ily traced  as  in  these  swampy  fallow  lands.  They  are  a  living  calendar, 
not  merely  of  the  seasons  alone,  but  of  every  month  successively ;  and  its 
record  is  almost  unmistakably  disclosed.  It  is  whispered  in  the  fragrant 
breath  of  flowers,  and  of  the  aromatic  herbage  you  crush  beneath  your 
feet.  It  floats  about  on  filmy  wings  of  dragon-fly  and  butterfly,  or  glistens 
in  the  air  on  silky  seeds.  It  skips  upon  the  surface  of  the  water,  or 
swims  among  the  weeds  beneath ;  and  is  noised  about  in  myriads  of  tell- 
tale songs  among  the  reeds  and  sedges.  The  swallows  and  the  starlings 
proclaim  it  in  their  flight,  and  the  very  absence  of  these  living  features  is 
as  eloquent  as  life  itself.  Even  in  the  simple  story  of  the  leaf,  the  bud, 
the  blossom,  and  the  downy  seed,  it  is  told  as  plainly  as  though  written 
in  prosaic  words  and  strewn  among  the  herbage. 

In  the  early,  blustering  days  of  March,  there  is  a  stir  beneath  the  thaw- 
ing ground,  and  the  swamp  cabbage-root  sends  up  a  well  protected  scout 
to  explore  among  the  bogs ;  but  so  dismal  are  the  tidings  which  he  brings, 
that  for  weeks  no  other  venturing  sprout  dares  lift  its  head.  He  braves 
alone  the  stormy  month — the  solitary  sign  of  spring,  save,  perhaps,  the 
lengthening  of  the  alder  catkins  that  loosen  in  the  wind.  April  woos  the 
yellow  cowslips  into  bloom  along  the  water's  edge,  and  the  golden  willow 
twigs  shake  out  their  perfumed  tassels.  In  May  the  prickly  carex  blos- 
soms among  the  tussocks,  and  the  calamus  buds  burst  forth  among  their 
flat,  green  blades.     June  is  heralded  on  right  and  left  by  the  unfurling  of 


ii8 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


blue-flags,  and  the  eyebright  blue  winks 
and  blinks  as  it  awakens  in  the  dazzling  July  sun. 
Then   follows   brimful   August,  with   the    sum- 
mer's consummation  of  luxuriance  and  bloom ;  with 
flowers  in  dense  profusion  in  bouquets  of  iron-weed 
and   thoroughworts,  of  cardinal   flowers   and  fragrant 
clethra,  with  their  host  of  blossoming  companions.     The 
milk-weed  pods  fray  out  their  early  floss  upon  Septem- 
ber breezes,  and  the  blue  petals  of  the  gentian  first  unfold  their  fringes. 
October  overwhelms  us  with  the  friendly  tokens  of  burr  marigolds  and 
bidens ;  while  its  thickets  of  black-alder  lose  their  autumn  verdure,  and 


AUTUMN.  119 

leave  November  with  a  "  burning  bush  "  of  scarlet  berries  hitherto  half- 
hidden  in  the  leafage.  Now,  too,  the  copses  of  witch-hazel  bedeck  them- 
selves, and  are  yellow  with  their  tiny  ribbons.  December's  name  is  writ- 
ten in  wreaths  of  snow  upon  the  withered  stalks  of  slender  weeds  and 
rushes,  which  soon  lie  bent  and  broken  in  the  lap  of  January,  crushed 
beneath  their  winter  weight.  And  in  fulfilment  of  the  cycle,  February 
sees  the  swelling  buds  of  willow,  with  their  restless  pussies  eager  for  the 
spring,  half  creeping  from  their  winter  cells. 

The  October  day  is  a  dream,  bright  and  beautiful  as  the  rainbow,  and 
as  brief  and  fugitive.  The  same  clouds  and  the  same  sun  may  be  with 
us  on  the  morrow,  but  the  rainbow  will  have  gone.  There  is  a  destroyer 
that  goes  abroad  by  night ;  he  fastens  upon  every  leaf,  and  freezes  out 
its  last  drop  of  life,  and  leaves  it  on  the  parent  stem,  pale,  withered,  and 
dying. 

Then  come  those  closing  days  of  dissolution,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 
when  all  nature  is  filled  with  phantoms,  and  the  gaunt  and  naked  trees 
moan  in  the  wind — every  leaf  a  mockery,  every  breeze  a  sigh.  The  air 
seems  weighed  with  a  premonition  of  the  dreariness  to  come.  The  land- 
scape is  darkened  in  a  melancholy  monotone,  and  death  is  written  every- 
where. You  may  walk  the  woods  and  fields  for  hours  without  a  gleam 
of  comfort  or  a  cheering  sound.  We  hear,  perhaps,  the  hollow  roll  of  the 
woodpecker  upon  some  neighboring  tree ;  but  even  he  is  clad  in  mourn- 
ina: :  it  is  a  muffled  drum,  and  the  resounding  limb  is  dead.  You  sit 
beneath  the  old  oak-tree,  but  it  is  a  lifeless  rustle  that  grates  upon  your 
ear,  while  you  listen  half  beseechingly  for  some  cheering  note  from  the 
robins  in  the  thicket  near ;  but  they  are  coy  and  silent  now,  and  their 
flight  is  toward  the  southern  hills.  A  villanous  shrike  must  needs  come 
upon  the  scene  :  he  alights  upon  a  limb  near  by,  with  blood  upon  his 
beak.  Murder  is  in  his  eye,  and  his  mission  here  is  death.  And  now 
we  hear  a  noisy  crow  o'erhead  :  he  perches  upon  a  neighboring  tree  in 
hungry  scrutiny.  And  what  is  he  but  carrion's  bird,  that  revels  in  decay 
and  death,  with  raiment  black  as  a  funeral  pall  ?  In  the  cold  gray  sky 
we  see  their  scattered  flocks  blowing  in  the  wind  with  sidelong  flight, 
and  in  the  field  below  that  mocking  cadaver,  the  man  of  straw,  shaking 
his  flimsy  arms  at  them  in  wild  contortions. 

There  is  a  hopeless  despondency  abroad  in  all  the  air,  in  which  the 
summer  medleys  of  the  birds  taunt  us  with  their  memories.  We  yearn 
for  one  such  joyful  sound  to  break  the  gloomy  reverie.      But  what  bird 


I20 


PAS  2' ORAL    DAYS. 


ijSP' 


could  swell  his  throat 
in  song  amidst  such 
cheerlessness  ?       No, 
Nature  does  not  thus 
defeat    her    purpose. 
The    hopefulness    of 
Spring,  the  joyful  con- 
summation   of    Sum- 
mer, have   fled ;   their 
mission    is    fulfilled, 
and  these  are  days  for 
meditation  on  the  past 
and  future.      All  nat- 
ure  speaks   of  death ; 
and  there  are  voices  of 
despair,  and  others  el- 
oquent with  hope  and 
trust.    There  are  dead 
leaves    that    crumble 
into  dust  beneath  our 
feet ;  but,  if  we  look 
higher,  there  are  oth- 
ers   that    conceal 
the  promise   of    "' 
eternal  life,  where 
the  undevel-   -^'-'  '^ 
oped  being, 
that    per- 
fect symbol. 


nsr-'" 


THE   NORTH    WIND. 


AUTUMN.  121 

weaves  his  silken  shroud,  and  awaits  the  coming  of  his  day  of  full  per- 
fection. In  the  ground  beneath  he  seeks  his  sepulchre,  and  he  knows 
that  at  the  appointed  time  he  will  burst  his  cerements  and  fly  away. 
These  are  inobtrusive,  silent  testimonies  ;  but  they  are  here,  and  need 
only  to  be  sought  to  unfold  their  prophecies. 

But  there  comes  a  respite  even  in  these  late  gloomy  days.  There  is 
a  lull  in  the  work  of  devastation,  in  which  the  sunny  skies  and  magic 
haze  of  October  come  back  to  us  in  the  charming  dreaminess  of  the 
Indian  summer.  A  brief  farewell — perhaps  a  day,  perhaps  a  week;  but 
however  long,  it  is  a  parting  smile  that  we  love  to  recall  in  the  dreari- 
ness that  follows.  The  sky  is  luminous  with  soft  sun-lit  clouds,  and  the 
hazy  air  is  laden  with  spring-like  breezes,  with  now  and  then  a  welcome 
cricket-song  or  light-hearted  bird-note,  for,  although  long  upon  their  way, 
the  birds  have  not  yet  all  departed.  They  twitter  cheerily  among  the 
trees  and  thickets,  and  should  you  listen  quietly  you  perhaps  might  hear 
an  echo  of  spring  again  in  the  warble  of  the  robin  upon  the  dog-wood- 
tree.  Here  they  have  loitered  by  the  way  among  the  scarlet  berries. 
Not  only  robins,  but  cedar- birds  and  thrushes  are  here,  in  successive 
flocks,  from  morn  till  niglit. 

The  fields  are  dull  with  faded  golden-rods  and  asters,  among  whose 
downy  seeds  the  frolicking  chickadees  and  snow-birds  hold  a  jubilee. 
The  maze  of  twigs  and  branches  in  the  distant  hills  has  enveloped 
them  in  a  smoky  gray,  and  the  sound  of  rustling  leaves  follows  your  foot- 
steps in  your  woodland  rambles.  The  fringe  of  yellow  petals  is  unfold- 
ing on  the  witch-hazel  boughs,  and  if  you  only  knew  the  place,  you  might 
discover  in  some  forsaken  nook  a  solitary  pale-blue  lamp  of  fringed  gen- 
tian still  flickering  among  the  withered  leaves.  Now  a  lively  twittering 
and  a  hum  of  wings  surprises  you,  and  before  you  can  turn  your  head  a 
happy  little  troop  of  birds  sweep  across  your  path,  and  are  away  among 
the  evergreens.  They  are  white  buntings,  and  their  presence  here  is  like 
a  chill,  for  they  come  from  the  icy  regions  of  the  North,  and  they  bring 
the  snow  upon  their  wings.  The  Indian  summer  is  soon  a  thing  of  the 
past.  Perhaps  before  another  daybreak  it  will  have  flown.  There  is  no 
dawn  upon  that  morning.  The  night  runs  into  a  day  of  dismal,  cheerless 
twilight,  and  the  sky  is  overcast  with  ominous  darkness.  That  angry 
cloud  that  left  us,  driven  away  before  the  conquering  Spring,  now  lowers 
above  the  northward  mountain ;  we  see  its  livid  face  and  feel  its  blight- 
ing breath — "a  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold,"  that  sweeps  along  the  moor 

i6 


122 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


in  noisy  triumph,  that  howls  and  tears  among  the  trembUng  trees,  and 
smothers  out  the  last  smouldering  flame  of  faded  Autumn. 

The  final  leaf  is  torn  from  the  tree.  The  lingering"  birds  depart  the 
desolation  for  scenes  more  tranquil,  and  I  too  with  them,  for  nothing 
here  invites  my  tarrying.  The  Autumn  days  are  gone,  grim  Winter  is 
at  our  door,  and  the  covering  snow  will  soon  enshroud  the  earth,  sub- 
dued and  silent  in  its  winter  sleep. 


Winter. 


d  I'  :.^ct  in-  -^       ,-- 

'  BcoueatK^  no  ic>\  .>; ixt  i  Uk  v^i  J  t.  f  itl' 
■*     B'nt  lends  t--cj|.  vm|tfnnq'ibn«a5adiv^.s  ' 

Z'jrkiv^  ana  -Jiath  their  -Yjverei  it  ^lue  j^  i 

i^ionof  JitaJ  >,F  cmcl  i>la'>[s  ^hei  Kil' 
.<5k  -vile  Snii<>a  lTca\y  lUdH  tv»T  r 
how'^mSnv  thus  rhrirW  ni''  srcl.kii^  virtc 
-    >;hose  darkencJfeith  tiodayliqht  ^Uc,r  kii^ii 
"''  fflas  f 01  him  who  thinks  the  4ra\e  his  QQom 
•Or-'see&lhe  SunqoJown  SehinJ  the  t;>"^„^ 
'->roek ^-<:i  J y^ihall  [jiict  •<>!  even  ham 
litute  prophecifes  thou"  mission  t<?li 
leiy  but  a  Iisfe-mii<5  car  and  iheyslcill  sd- 
<ShG  dead  bat  ikeh  they  do  nof  pass  awa^ 
1  Else  whv  mid  caYlh  and  htdVesn  on_y&nder  ttetf 
^hAi  typ€o}lif«ind^l-h  tWhvimtomb  ^ 
.>hy  the  imaqo  from  dorp.  cereTiienK  jrtc 
Winciinq  iK  ufJwaid  {Jioftt  <roin  earthly  Joom 
^hy  tRis  device  sujarerne-'unlestja  ^poNxt 
O'f    res-urr&cred  lije  and  immoil-dlit/-  , 
'  Oh  thou  whos.G  downcast  eyes  refuse  to  se«>k 
^«e  ,'vueri  at  tlie  cirav^  the  sign  ti  given  • 
>^ne  snouj clad  evergreen    ettma!  Jifc 
'3Llhed  in  celo&liaT  f^uritv  fiom  i)ca\.,n  - 
"""Li^cnthus  li(=.s  Wint^,!  s'fiouldhc  Liyst 
c<.-r<.;]2ot   ''I  -I-'  3iid  iieftu  hut  Ulll  ej  peaci  a  iJ  l  Jil- 


v1> 


s 


ILENTLY,  like  thoughts  that  come  and  go,  the  snow-flakes  fall,  each 
one  a  gem.     The  whitened  air  conceals  all  earthly  trace,  and  leaves  to 


128  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

memory  the  space  to  fill.  I  look  upon  a  blank,  whereon  my  fancy  paints, 
as  could  no  hand  of  mine,  the  pictures  and  the  poems  of  a  boyhood 
life ;  and  even  as  the  undertone  of  a  painting,  be  it  warm  or  cool,  shall 
modify  or  change  the  color  laid  upon  it,  so  this  cold  and  frosty  back- 
ground through  the  window  transfigures  all  my  thoughts,  and  forms  them 
into  winter  memories  legion  like  the  snow.  Oh  that  I  could  translate  for 
other  eyes  the  winter  idyl  painted  there !  I  see  a  living  past  whose  coun- 
terpart I  well  could  wish  might  be  a  common  fortune.  I  see  in  all  its 
joyous  phases  the  gladsome  winter  in  New  England,  the  snow-clad  hills 
with  bare  and  shivering  trees,  the  homestead  dear,  the  old  gray  barn 
hemmed  in  with  peaked  drifts.  I  see  the  skating-pond,  and  hear  the  ring- 
ing, intermingled  shouts  of  the  noisy,  shuffling  game,  the  black  ice  written 
full  with  testimony  of  the  winter's  brisk  hilarity.  Down  the  hard-packed 
road  with  glancing  sled  I  speed,  past  frightened  team  and  startled  way- 
side groups ;  o'er  "  thank  you,  marms,"  I  fly  in  clear  mid-air,  and  crouch- 
ing low,  with  sidelong  spurts  of  snowy  spray,  I  sweep  the  sliding  curve. 
Now  past  the  village  church  and  cosy  parsonage.  Now  scudding  close 
beneath  the  hemlocks,  hanging  low  with  their  piled  and  tufted  weight  of 
snow.  The  way-side  bits  like  dizzy  streaks  whiz  by,  the  old  rail  fence 
becomes  a  quivering  tint  of  gray.  The  road-side  weeds  bow  after  me,  and 
in  the  swirling  eddy  chasing  close  upon  my  feet,  sway  to  and  fro.  Soon, 
like  an  arrow  from  the  bow,  I  shoot  across  the  "  Town  Brook  "  bridge, 
and,  jumping  out  beyond,  skip  the  sinking  ground,  and  with  an  anxious 
eye  and  careful  poise  I  "  trim  the  ship,"  and,  hoping,  leave  the  rest  to 
fate. 

Perhaps  I  land  on  both  runners,  perhaps  I  don't ;  that  depends.  I've 
tried  both  ways  I  know,  and  if  I  remember  rightly,  I  always  found  it  royal 
jolly  fun ;  for  what  cared  I  at  a  bruise,  or  a  pint  of  snow  down  my  back, 
when  I  got  it  there  myself  ? 

The  average  New  England  boy  is  hard  to  kill,  and  I  was  one  of  that 
kind.  Any  boy  who  could  brave  the  hidden  mysteries  and  capricious 
favoritism  of  those  fifteen  dislocating  "  thank  you,  marms,"  and  hang  to- 
gether through  it  all,  and,  having  so  done,  finish  that  experience  with  a 
plunging  double  somersault  into  a  crusted  snow-bank,  or,  perchance,  into 
a  stone  wall — if  he  can  do  this,  I  say,  and  survive  the  fun,  then  there 
is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  live  to  tell  of  it  in  old  age,  for  never  in 
the  fiesh  will  he  go  through  a  rougher  ordeal.  I've  known  a  boy  who 
"  hated  the  old  district  school  because  the  hard  benches  hurt  him   so," 


WINTER. 


I2g 


and  who  would  rest  his  aching  hmbs  for  hours  together 
in  this  gentle  sort  of  exercise.  "  The  fine  print  made  his 
eyes  ache,  and  he  couldn't  study ;"  and  yet  when  one  day 
he  comes  home  with  one  eye  all  colors  of  the  rainbow, 
"  it's  notJiingr  "  Consistency  is  a  jewel."  Boys  don't 
generally  wear  jewels.  But  they  are  all  alike.  Boys  will 
be  boys,  and  if  they  only  live  through  it,  they  will  some 
day  look  back  and  wonder  at  their  good  fortune. 

At  the  foot  of  that  lonof  hill  the  "  Town  Brook  "  eur- 
gles  on  its  winding  way,  and  passing  beneath  the  weather- 
beaten  bridge,  it  makes  a  sudden  turn,  and  spreads  into 
a  glassy  pond  behind  the  bulwarks  of  the  saw-mill  dam. 
In  summer,  were  we  as  near  as  this,  we  would  hear  the 
intermittent  ring  of  the  whizzing  saw,  the  clanking  cogs, 
and  the  tuneful  sounds  of  the  falling  bark-bound  slabs ; 
but  now,  like   its   bare   willows   that  were  wont  to  wave 
their  leafy  boughs  with  caressing  touch  upon  the  mossy 
roof,  the  old  mill  shows   no  sign  of  life.      Its   pulse   is 
frozen,  and  the   silent  wheel   is   resting  from   its   labors 
beneath  a  coverlet  of  snow.     Who  is  there  who  has  not 
in  some  recess  of  the  memory  a  dear  old  haunt  like 
this,  some  such  sleeping  pond  radiant  with  reflections 
of  the  scenes  of  early  life .''     Thither  in  those  win- 
ter days  we  came,  our  numbers  swelled  from 
rigrht  and  left  with  easrer  volunteers  for  the 
game,  till  at  last,  almost  a  hundred  strong,  we 
rally  on  the  smooth  black  ice. 

The  opposing  leaders  choose  their 
sides,  and  with  loud  hurrahs  we 
penetrate  the  thickets  at  the         -       .^'i 
water's  edge,  each    „ 
to  cut  his  special    .         .  ^.i 

choice  of  stick — that 
festive  cud- 
gel, with 

curved  and       ^---^i- 
club-shaped   end, 
known  to  the  boy  as  a 
17 


"^A 


.  dsl. 


SNOW-FLAKES   OF   MEMORY. 


130  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

"shinney-stick,"  but  to  the  calm  recollection  of  after-life  principally  as  an 
instrument  of  torture,  indiscriminately  promiscuous  in  its  playful  mo- 
ments. Were  I  to  swing  one  of  those  dainty  little  clubs  again,  I  would 
rather  that  the  end  were  tied  up  in  something  soft,  and  that  this  should 
be  the  universal  rule ;  otherwise  I  don't  think  I  would  play.  I  would 
prefer  to  sit  on  the  bank  and  watch  the  sport,  or  make  myself  useful  in 
looking  after  the  dead  and  wounded.  But  to  the  "  average  New  Eng- 
land boy  "  it  makes  a  great  deal  of  difference  who  swings  the  club,  and 
what  it  is  swung  for.  If  it  is  whirled  in  play,  and  takes  him  with  a  blow 
that  02ight  to  kill  him,  and  would  if  he  were  not  a  boy,  why  then  he 
laughs,  and  thinks  it  s  good  fun,  and  goes  in  and  gets  another.  But  if 
the  parental  guardian  has  any  reason  to  swing  a  stick  even  one-tenth 
the  size,  the  whole  neighborhood  thinks  there  is  a  boy  being  murdered. 
So  much  depends  upon  a  name  sometimes. 

How  clearly  and  distinctly  I  recall  those  toughening,  rollicking  sports 
on  the  old  mill-pond !  I  see  the  two  opposing  forces  on  the  field  of  ice, 
the  wooden  ball  placed  ready  for  the  fray.  The  starter  lifts  his  stick.  I 
hear  a  whizzing  sweep.  Then  comes  that  liquid,  twittering  ditty  of  the 
hard-wood  ball  skimming  over  the  ice,  that  quick  succession  of  bird-like 
notes,  first  distinct  and  clear,  now  fainter  and  more  blended,  now  fainter 
still,  until  at  last  it  melts  into  a  whispered,  quivering  whistle,  and  dies 
away  amidst  the  scraping  sound  of  the  close-pursuing  skates.  With  a 
sharp  crack  I  see  the  ball  returned  singing  over  the  polished  surface,  and 
met  half-way  by  the  advance-guai^d  of  the  leading  side.  The  holder  of 
the  ball  with  rapid  onward  flight  hugs  close  upon  his  charge,  keeping  it  at 
the  end  of  his  stick.  Past  one  and  another  of  his  adversaries  he  flies  on 
winged  skates,  followed  by  a  score  of  his  companions,  until,  seeing  his 
golden  opportunity,  with  one  tremendous  effort  he  gives  a  powerful  blow. 
To  be  sure,  one  of  his  own  men  interposes  the  back  of  his  head  and  takes 
half  the  force  of  his  stroke ;  but  what  does  that  matter,  it  was  all  in  fun  ? 
besides,  he  had  no  business  to  be  in  the  way.  The  ball  thus  retarded  in 
such  a  trivial  manner  instantly  meets  a  barricade  of  the  excited  oppo- 
nents, who  have  hurried  thither  to  save  their  game ;  but  before  any  one 
can  gain  the  time  to  strike  the  ball,  the  starters  rush  pell-mell  upon  them. 
Now  comes  the  tug  of  war.  Strange  fun !  What  a  spectacle !  The 
would-be  striker,  with  stick  uplifted,  jammed  in  the  centre  of  a  boisterous 
throng ;  the  hill-sides  echo  with  ringing  shouts,  and  an  anxious  circle  with 
ready  sticks  forms  about  the  swaying,  gesticulating  mob.     Meanwhile  the 


ball  is  beating  round  be- 
neath their  feet,  their  skates     '  ' 
are  clashing  steel  on  steel.     I 
hear    the    shuffling    kicks,   the    battling 
strokes  of  clubs,  the  husky  mutterings  of 
passion    half    suppressed ;    I    hear    the 
panting  breath  and  the  impetuous  whis- 
perings between  the  teeth,  as  they  push 
and  wrestle  and  jam.     A  lucky  hit  now 
^^  sends   the  ball  a  few  feet  from 

M'l'^--  the  fray.      A  ready  hand 

mipioves    the    chance  ; 
but  as  he  lifts  his 
^  stick    a   young- 

ster's   nose 
gets  in  the 
way  and  spoils  his  stroke ;  he  slips,  and  falls  upon  the  ball ;  another  and 
another  plunge  headlong  over  him.     The  crowd  surround  the  prostrate 

pile,  and  punch  among  them  for  the  ball.     When  found,  the  same  riotous 

17* 


132  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

scene  ensues ;  another  falls,  and  all  are  trampled  under  foot  by  the  en- 
thusiastic crowd.  Ye  gods  !  will  any  one  come  out  alive  ?  I  hear  the 
old  familiar  sounds  vibrating  on  the  air  :  whack  !  whack  !  "  Ouch  !" 
"  Get  out  of  the  way,  then  !"  "  Now  I've  got  it !"  "  Shinney  on  yer  own 
side  !"  and  now  a  heavy  thud !  which  means  a  sudden  damjDer  on  some 
one's  wild  enthusiasm.  And  so  it  goes  until  the  game  is  won.  The 
mob  disperses,  and  the  riotous  spectacle  gives  place  to  uproarious  jollity. 

There  are  other  more  tranquil  reflections  from  that  old  mill-pond.  Do 
you  not  remember  the  little  pair  of  dainty  skates  whose  straps  you  clasped 
on  daintier  feet ;  the  quiet,  gliding  strolls  through  the  secluded  nooks  ;  the 
small,  refractory  buckle  which  you  so  often  stooped  to  conquer;  and  the 
sidelong  grimaces  of  less  fortunate  swains — sneers  that  brought  the  color 
tingling  to  your  cheeks  with  mingled  pride  and  anger  1  Ah !  things  so 
near  the  heart  as  these  can  never  freeze. 

Yonder,  just  below  that  clustered  group  of  pines,  where  the  water- 
weeds  and  lily-pads  are  frozen  in  the  ice,  we  chojoped  our  fishing  holes, 
and  with  baited  lines  and  tip-ups  set,  we  waited,  wondering  what  our  luck 
would  be.  With  eager  eyes  we  watched  the  line  play  out,  or  saw  the  tip- 
up  give  the  warning  sign.  And  as  with  anxious  pull  we  neared  the,  end 
of  the  tightening  cord,  who  shall  describe  that  tingling  sense  of  joy  at  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  gaping  pickerel .? 

Near  by  I  see  the  yellow-fringed  witch-hazel  bending  in  graceful  spray 
over  the  flaky,  bordering  ice,  that  mystic  shrub  whose  feathery  winter 
blooms  we  gathered  as  a  token  for  the  little  one  with  dainty  skates. 

Still  farther  up  the  pond  the  marbled  button-wood-tree,  with  spreading 
limbs  and  knotty  brooms  of  branchlets,  rises  clear  against  the  sky,  its  little 
pendulums  swinging  away  the  winter  moments.  At  its  very  roots  the 
dam  spreads  into  a  tufted  swamp,  thick-set  with  alders.  How  often  have 
I  picked  my  way  through  that  wheezing,  soggy  marsh  in  quest  of  the  rare 
Cecropia  cocoons ;  treading  among  glazed  air-chambers,  whose  roof  of  ice, 
like  a  pane  of  brittle  glass,  falls  in  at  my  approach — a  crystal  fairy  grotto, 
set  with  diamonds  and  frost  ferns,  annihilated  at  a  step. 

Here,  too,  the  sagacious  musk-rat  built  his  cemented  dome,  and  along 
the  neighboring  shore  we  set  the  chained  steel-traps,  or  made  the  pon- 
derous dead-fall  from  nature's  rude  materials.  Yonder,  in  the  side-hill 
woods,  I  set  the  big  box  rabbit-traps ;  with  keen-edged  jack-knife  trimmed 
the  slender  hickory  poles,  and  on  the  ground  near  by,  with  sharpened, 
branching  sticks,  I  built  the  little  pens  for  my  twitch -up  snares.     Can 


WINTER. 


133 


I  ever  forget  the  fascinating  excitement 
which  sped  me  on  from  snare  to  snare  in 
those  tramps  through  the  snowy  woods, 
the  exhilarating  buoyancy  of  that  deh- 
cious  suspense,  every  nerve  and  every 
muscle  on  the  qui  vive  in  my  eagerness 
for  the  captured  game  !  Even  the  mem- 
ory of  it  acts  like  a  tonic,  and  almost  cre- 
ates an  appetite-  like  that  of  old. 

And  then  the  lovely  woods.    How 
few  there  are  who  ever  seek  their 
winter  solitude ;  and  of  these  how  fewer 
still  are   they  who   find  anything  but     . 
drear  and  cold  monotony  ! 

We    read   the    literature    of   our     -  .. 
time,  and  find  it  rich  in  story  of  the 
home   aspects   of  winter ;    of  Christ- 
mas joys   and  festivals,  of  holiday 
festivities,  and    all    the    various 
phases  of  cosy  domestic  life ; 
but   not   often   are   we 
tempted  from  the  glow-    / 
ing  hearth  into  the 
wilds    of   the    bare 
and  leafless  forest.    We 
read  of  the  "  drear  and 
lonely  waste,  the  cheerless 

desolation   of  the   howling  wilderness,"  the  first  snow. 

and  we  look  out  upon  the  naked,  shiv- 
ering trees   and  draw  our  cushioned  rockers   closer  to  the  grateful  fire. 

Not  I ;  bitter  were  the  winds  and  high  the  piled-up  drifts  that  shut  me 
in  from  out-of-doors  in  those  glorious  days;  and  whether  on  my  animated 
trapping  tours,  or  hunting  on  the  crusted  snow,  with  powder-horn  and 
game-bag  swinging  at  my  side,  or  perhaps  pressing  through  the  tangled 
thickets  in  my  impetuous  search  for  those  pendulous  cocoons,  now  stop- 
ping to  tear  away  the  loosening  bark  on  moss-grown  stump,  now  looking 
beneath  some  prostrate  board  for  the  little  "  woolly  bears  "  curled  up  in 
their  dormant  sleep  :   no  matter  what  my  purpose,  always  I  was  sure  to 


134  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

find  the  winter  full  of  interest  and  beauty.  How  distinctly  I  recall  the 
thrilling  spectacle  of  that  glad  morning  when,  awakening  early,  and 
jumping  from  the  little  cot  so  snug  and  warm,  I  tripped  across  the  chilly 
floor  and  scratched  a  peep-hole  on  the  frosted  window-pane ;  looked  out 
upon  a  world  so  changed,  so  strangely  beautiful,  that  at  first  it  seemed 
like  a  lingering  vision  in  half-awakened  eyes — still  looking  into  dream- 
land. All  the  world  is  dressed  in  purest  white,  as  soft  and  light  as 
down  from  seraphs'  wings.  The  orchard  trees,  the  elms,  and  all  the 
leafless  shrubs,  as  if  by  magic  spell,  transformed  to  shadowy  plumes  of 
spotless  purity,  and  the  interlacing  boughs  o'erhead  vanishing  in  a  can- 
opy of  glistening,  feathery  spray.  I  look  upon  a  realm  celestial  in  its 
beauty,  unprofaned  by  earthly  sign  or  sound.  A  strange,  supernal  still- 
ness fills  the  air ;  and  save  where  some  unseen  spirit-wing  tips  the  slender 
twig  and  lets  fall  the  scintillating  shower,  no  slightest  movement  mars 
the  enchanted  vision.  Above,  in  the  far-off  blue,  I  see  the  circling  flock 
of  doves,  their  snowy  wings  glittering  in  their  upward  flight — apt  em- 
blems in  a  scene  so  like  a  glimpse  of  spirit-land.  A  single  vision  such 
as  this  should  wed  the  heart  to  winter's  loveliness,  a  loveliness  inspiring 
and  immaculate,  for  never  in  the  cycle  of  the  year  does  nature  wear  a 
face  so  void  of  earthly  impress,  so  spirit-like,  so  near  the  heavenly  ideal. 

One  of  the  most  striking  features  of  the  winter  ramble  in  the  woods 
is  their  impressive  stillness.  But  stop  awhile  and  listen.  That  very  si- 
lence will  give  emphasis  to  every  sound  that  soon  shall  vibrate  on  the 
clear  atmosphere,  for  "  little  pitchers  have  big  ears,"  and  wide-open  eyes 
too.  They  will  first  be  sure  that  the  stick  you  hold  is  only  a  cane,  and 
not  the  small  boy's  gun  which  they  have  so  learned  to  dread.  Hark ! 
even  from  the  hollow  maple  at  your  side  there  comes  a  scraping  sound, 
and  in  an  instant  more  two  black  and  shining  eyes  are  peering  down  at 
us  from  the  bulging  hole  above.  Tut !  don't  strike  the  little  fellow. 
Had  you  only  waited  a  moment  longer,  we  would  have  seen  him  emerge 
from  his  concealment,  and  with  frisky,  bushy  tail  laid  flat  upon  the  bark, 
he  would  have  hung  head  downward  on  the  trunk,  and  watched  our  every 
movement ;  but  now  you've  startled  him,  he  thinks  you  mean  mischief, 
and  you'll  see  his  sparkling  eyes  no  more  at  that  knot-hole.  Listen ! 
Now  we  hear  a  rustling  in  the  sere  and  snow-tipped  weeds  somewhere 
near  by,  and  presently  a  little  feathery  form  flits  past,  and  settles  yonder 
on  the  swaying  rush.  With  feathers  ruffled  into  a  little  fuzzy  ball,  he 
bustles  around  among  the  downy  seeds,  now  prying  in  their  midst,  now 


'■'^  \i 


i  / 


l\ 


hano-ino-    un- 

O         O 


derneath,  head 
up,  head  down,  no 
matter  which,  it's  all  the 
same  to  him.     Now  he 
VE         ^W\&\  stops  short  in  his  busy 

^     search,  turns  his  little 
-"       head  jauntily  from  side 
",^     to  side,  lifts  his  tufted 
crest,  and  sets  free  his 
pent-up   glee — "  See  !    see  ! 
see  me  sins: !     Chickadee-dee-dee  !" 
^  Who  has  not  heard  that  wee 


J' 


S  \ 


'         small    voice    ringing    in    the 
frosty    air  ?    and    who,  having 
heard  it,  has  not  longed  to  catch 
and  cuddle   that   little  feathery 
puff,  the  winter's  own  darling, 
whose   little   warm   heart   and 
,^^        sprightly   song   temper   the 
chill    and    enliven     the 
cheerless    days  ?  t^     j^  | 


t^  'S 


^^ 


MUTE   PROPHECIES. 


136  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

The  bending  rush  but  lightly  feels  the  dainty  form,  and,  if  at  all,  it 
must  delight  to  bear  so  sweet  a  burden.  How  dearly  have  I  learned  to 
love  this  little  fellow,  perhaps  my  special  favorite  among  the  birds ;  for 
while  the  others  one  by  one  desert  us  with  the  dying  year  for  scenes 
more  bright  and  sunny,  the  chickadee  is  content  to  share  our  lot ;  he  is 
constant,  always  with  us,  ever  full  of  sprightliness  and  cheer.  No  winter 
is  known  in  his  warm  heart,  no  piercing  blast  can  freeze  the  fountain  of 
his  song. 

How  often  in  the  woods  and  by-ways  have  I  stopped  and  chatted  with 
this  diminutive  friend  as  he  nestled  in  some  oscillating  spray  of  golden- 
rod,  or  perhaps  with  jaunty  strut  shook  down  the  new-fallen  snow  from 
some  drooping  branch  of  hemlock.  I  say  "  chatted,"  for  he  is  a  talkative 
and  entertaining  little  fellow,  always  ready  to  tell  people  "  all  about  it,"  if 
they  will  only  ask  him.  He  is  generally  too  busy  searching  amid  the 
dead  and  crumpled  leaves  for  the  indispensable  bug  to  intrude  himself  on 
any  one ;  but  once  draw  him  into  conversation  and  he  will  do  his  share 
of  the  talking — only,  mind  you,  remove  those  big  fur  gloves  and  tippet, 
or  he  will  put  you  to  shanie  by  crying,  "  See  !  see  !"  and  showing  you  his 
littk  bare  feet.  This  pert  atom  can  be  saucy  and  cross  if  things  don't 
exactly  suit  his  fancy ;  and,  for  whatever  reason,  he  always  seems  out  of 
patience  at  the  sight  of  a  man  all  bundled  up  and  mittened.  I  have 
noticed  this  repeatedly.  "  Take  off  some  of  those  things,"  he  seems  to 
say,  "  and  let  me  see  who  you  are,  and  then  I'll  talk  with  you,"  and  with 
feathers  puffed  up  like  an  indignant  hen  in  miniature,  he  scolds  and 
scolds. 

Then  there  are  the  little  snow-birds,  too.  When  the  sad  autumn  days 
are  upon  us,  when  the  dying  leaves  with  ominous  flush  yield  up  their 
hold  on  life,  and  are  borne  to  earth  on  wailing  winds,  and  all  nature  seems 
filled  with  mocking  phantoms  of  the  summer's  life  and  loveliness ;  when 
we  listen  for  the  robin's  song  and  hear  it  not,  or  the  thrush's  bell-like 
trill,  and  listen  in  vain ;  when  we  look  into  the  southern  sky  and  see  the 
winged  flocks  departing  behind  the  faded  hills — it  is  at  such  a  time, 
while  the  very  air  seems  weighed  with  melancholy,  that  the  snow-birds 
come  with  their  welcome,  twittering  voices.  All  winter  long  these 
sprightly  little  fellows  swarm  the  thickets  and  sheltering  evergreens, 
frolicking  in  the  new-fallen  snow  like  sparrows  in  a  summer  pool.  Some- 
times they  unite  in  flocks  with  the  chickadees  and  invade  the  orchard, 
and  even  the  kitchen  door-yard,  with  their  ceaseless  chatter.     If  you  open 


the  \\'indo\v  and  scatter 
a   few    crumbs    upon    the  ■?* 

porch,  they  are  soon  hopping  among 
the     orrateful     morsels     with     twittenng 
thankfulness.     And  on  a  very  cold  day, 
should   you   leave   the   kitchen   wmdow 
standing  open,  they  will  perch   upon   the 
sill  and  preen  their  ruffled  featheis.     Al-  ^ 

ways  trusting  and  confiding  when  appreci- 
ated, but  often  coy  and  distant  for  want  of 
just  such  kindness. 

Although  loving  the  cold,  and  choosing 
the  winter  season  to  be  with  us,  the  snow-birds  can- 
not hold  their  own  against  the  little  hardy  chickadee. 
Indeed,  I  sometimes  think  that  this  httle  frost-proof 

IS 


THE   TWITCH-UP. 


138  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

puff  is  happier  and  more  sprightly  in  proportion  as  the  cold  increases, 
and  that  even  the  sight  of  a  frozen  thermometer  would  be,  perhaps,  an 
especial  inspiration  for  his  song.  Not  so  the  little  snow-birds.  When 
those  raw  and  bitter  winds  sweep  like  a  blight  over  the  face  of  nature, 
their  little  song  is  frozen,  and  their  familiar  forms  are  seen  no  more. 
You  hunt  an-iid  the  evergreens  and  hedge-rows,  but  they  are  not  there. 
But  when  the  shingle-vane  on  the  old  barn-gable  veers  and  points  toward 
the  south  or  west,  should  you  chance  to  be  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
barrack  mow,  you  would  hear  the  muffled  twittering  of  the  little  thawing 
voices  underneath  the  conical  roof.  Here  they  have  assembled  among 
the  wheat-sheaves  still  unthreshed,  finding  a  warm  and  cosy  shelter — 
"  a  pavilion  till  the  storm  is  overpast." 

The  winter  woods  are  full  of  life  and  beauty,  if  we  will  only  look  for 
them.  We  do  as  much  for  the  summer  woods,  why  not  for  the  winter  '^. 
Were  we  to  seclude  ourselves  in-doors  in  June,  and  shut  our  eyes  to  all 
its  loveliness,  it  would  be  only  what  so  many  do  from  November  till  the 
budding  spring.  In  one  respect,  at  least,  the  woods  are  even  more 
beautiful  in  winter  than  in  summer ;  for  in  their  height  of  leafy  splen- 
dor— sometimes  to  me  almost  oppressive  in  its  universal  greenness — the 
true  and  living  tree  is  hidden  from  sight,  its  exquisite  anatomy  is  con- 
cealed, and,  to  a  certain  degree,  all  the  different  trees  melt  into  a  mass 
of  "  nothing  but  leaves." 

No  one  ever  sees  the  full  charm  of  the  forest  who  turns  his  back 
upon  it  in  the  w-inter,  for  its  clear-cut  tree-forms  are  an  unceasing  de- 
light and  wonder.  Look  at  the  exquisite  lines  of  that  drooping  birch, 
the  intricate  interlacing  tracery  of  the  minute  branching  twigs !  Could 
anything  be  more  graceful  or  more  chaste }  could  any  covering  of  leaves 
enhance  its  beauty.?  And  so  the  apple-tree  by  the  old  stone  wall — how 
different  its  various  angles !  how  individual  in  its  character !  how  beauti- 
ful its  silhouette  against  the  sky !  Thus  every  separate  tree  affords  a 
perfect  study,  of  infinite  design.  See  that  mottled  beech  trunk  yonder. 
What !  never  noticed  it  before }  That  was  because  its  drooping  leaf-clad 
branches  concealed  its  beauty;  but  now  not  only  does  it  emerge  from 
its  wonted  obscurity,  but  the  whiteness  of  the  snowy  ground  beyond  gives 
added  value  to  every  subtle  tint  upon  its  dappled  surface.  Step  nearer. 
With  what  variety  of  exquisite  tender  grays  has  nature  painted  the  clean 
smooth  bark !  See  those  marbled  variegations,  each  spot  with  a  distinct 
tint  of  its  own,  and  each  tint  composed  of  a  multitude  of  microscopic 


WINTER. 


139 


»» 


hs^ 


points  of  color.     Here  we  see  a  fimbriated 
blotch   of  dark    olive    moss,  spreading    its 
intertwining  rootlets  in  all  direc- 
tions, and  further  up  a  spongy 
,      tuft    of    rich    brown    lichen 
\     tipped   with   snow.      Who 
could  pass  by  unnoticed  such 
a  refined  and  exquisite  bit  of 
painting  as  this  1     And  yet 


they    abound 

on  every  side.  , 

See  the  shingly  shagbark,  with 

its  mottlings  of  pale  green  lichen 

and   orange  spots,  its  jagged  out-      ' 

line   so  perfectly  relieved  against 

the  snow,  and,  beyond,  that  group  of 

rock-maples,  with  its  bold  contrasts  of 

deep  green  moss,  and  striped  tints  of  most      y^''> 

varied  shades,  from  lightest  drab  to  deepest      /^'y 

brown.      And   there    is    the    yellow  birch 

with    its    tio[ht- wound   bark,  fringed    with 

ravellings  of  buff-colored  satin.     Here  we 

come    upon    a    clump    of    chestnuts,  their 

cool  trunks  set  off  in  bold  relief  against  a 

background  of  dark   hemlocks,  whose   outer 

branches,  clothed  in   snow,  like   tufted   mittens, 

hang  low  upon  the  ground. 

Passing  from  the  wood,  we  now  pick  our  way 
through  a  neglected  by-path  shut  in  on  either  side 
with  birches,  whose  brown  and  slender  branches 
spring  from  a  trunk  so  white  as  to  be  almost  lost 
in  the  background  tint  of  snow.     At  every  step  we 
dislodge  the  glistening  wreaths  of  snowy  flakes  from 
the  bluish  raspberry  canes.     The  little  withered  nests 
on  the  tips  of  the  wild-carrot  stems  hurl  their  fleecy 
burden  to  the  ground ;  and  each  in  turn  the  phan- 
tom shapes  give  place  to  homely  yarrows,  golden- 
rods,  or  thistles.     Further  on  we  see  a  wild-rose 


THE   WINTER  S    DARLING. 


iS* 


;?*^ 


4^' 


.J' 


branch    with    scarlet 
berries,  and  further  st — 
What's  that  ?    A  fleet-foot- 
ed httle  creature  darts  out 
almost  from   under  our  very  feet, 
and  bounds  away  into  the  dark  re- 
f   cess.    That  little  cotton  tail !  what 

a  tempting  target  it  always  was  for 
me  !     Lucky  for  you,  my  dear  little  fel- 
low, that  I  am  not  a  boy  again,  or  I'd  set 
a   snare   for  you  in   about   ten    minutes. 
This    always    was    a   favorite    haunt   for 
hares,  and  if  we  had  only  kept  our  eyes 
open  we  might  have  known  it,  for,  see 
all  around  us  the  snow  is  dotted  with 
hollows  from  their  four  little  jumping 
foot-pads. 

Now   we    enter    the    old   swamp    lot, 
thick-set  with  bristling'  bulrushes 


'/^tfpSp'     and  bare  and  spindling  brooms 
/•-:       of   iron -weed.      Here   is      ,^  _ 
■  '  '      the    little    turtle     pond,  '  f 

from  whose  ani- 


mated mud  we 


'  who's  that  ?" 


WINTER. 


141 


fished  the  bugs  and  poUy-wogs  for  our  aquarium.  Now  it  is  shrunken 
and  cold  with  crackhng  ice.  Around  its  borders  a  thicket  of  black 
alder  grows,  its  close-clinging  scarlet  berries,  half  hid  in  summer  by  the 
overhanging  foliage,  now  seen  in  all  their  brilliancy  and  profusion,  the 
biightest  touches  of  color  in  nature's  winter  landscape. 

Soon  we  are  walking  over  the  soft  and  silent  carpet  in  the  pine 
grove's  sombre  shelter,  stopping  for  one  brief  moment  to  listen  to  the 
sighing  \^'ind  overhead,  and  to  inhale  one  long  and  lasting  whiff  of  the 
delicious  invigorating  aroma  of  the  trees. 

,  Once   more  out  in  the  open,  our  attention  is 

■P^''      arrested  by  a  little  stain  of  blood  upon  the  snow. 


V 


-^^Jh^^ 


SUNSHINE   AND   SHADOW 
IN  THE   WOODS. 


Leading  to   the   spot  we  see   a   row  of  tiny 
imprints  of  some  little  field-mouse,  and  the  white  sur- 
face in  close  vicinity  is  rufiied  and  disturbed.     A  cruel 
tragedy  has  been  committed  here,  and  its  evidence  is  plain,  for  there  is 
but  one  line  of  wee  footprints  from  the  little  hole  beneath  the  stump  near 
by — no   return.      Poor  little  fellow !     I  wish  I  had  beneath  my  foot  the 
sharp-eyed  owl  that  surprised  you  in  your  little  antics  on  the  snow. 


142  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

A  deserted  nest  now  hangs  across  our  pathway,  and  as  I  look  upon 
the  cold  heap  within  its  hollow,  I  wonder  where  are  the  little  birds  that 
nestled  beneath  the  mother's  wings  in  the  cosy  warmth  of  that  cradled 
home  only  a  few  short  months  ago.  And  now  I  am  reminded  that  nearly 
all  this  land  through  which  we  have  been  strolling  belongs  to  Nathan 
Beers;  for  there's  his  house  right  across  the  road,  only  a  few  rods  in  front 
of  us.  I  cannot  help  but  laugh  as  I  look  over  into  that  old  door-yard 
at  the  incident  it  recalls. 

I  remember  how,  about  fifteen  years  ago,  I  came  up  througli  these 
very  woods  into  the  clearing  where  we  stand,  and  saw  old  Nathan,  with 
slouched  straw  hat  and  stoga  boots,  entering  his  front  gate.  He  was 
muttering  and  gesticulating  to  himself ;  and  on  the  gravel  behind  him 
he  trailed  along  a  huge  steel  trap  and  clinking  chain.  He  evidently 
had  a  strong  opinion  on  some  subject,  and  I  knew  pretty  well  what  that 
subject  zvas. 

"  Hello,  Nathan  !"  I  ask,  "  what's  up  ?" 

He  turns  quickly,  and  I  observe  that  his  usually  good-natured  Yankee 
face  now  wears  a  troubled  expression. 

"  My  dander's  up — that's  what's  up,"  he  replies,  a  little  sullenly. 

"  They  tell  me  you've  been  after  a  fox,  Nathan  ;  did  you  catch  him  .?" 

"  No,  'n  I  don't  cal'late  to  try  agin  nuther,  he's  airnt  his  livin  fer  all 
me  r  and  with  an  impetuous  fling  he  sent  the  old  trap  into  a  corner  of 
the  wood-shed. 

I  am  soon  by  his  side,  anxious  to  hear  all  about  it.  "  What's  the  fox 
done  .''"  I  ask,  eagerly. 

"  What  haiiit  he  done,  yen  better  say.  I  never  see  nuthin'  t'  beat  it 
since  uz  born,  'n  I've  ketched  tew  er  three  on  'em  afore  naow,  teu.  I've 
heern  tell  o'  them  critters'  cunnin',  but  I  swaiou  I  alliz  thort  ez  haow 
folks  wuz  coddiii  ;  but  thar,  yeu  can't  tell  me  nuthin'  'baout  foxes.  It's 
nigh  cum  a  fortnit  thet  I've  been  arter  thet  feller,  'n  I  swar  teu  gosh  all 
hemlock  !  I  hain't  got  so  much  's  one  on  his  pesky  red  hairs  teu  show 
for't,  'n  I'm  sick  on't.  I  tell  ye  that  ar  feller  is  mischievouser  than  piseu, 
'n  his  bed's  as  long  as  a  horse's." 

"  Why,  what's  he  been  doing,  Nathan  ?" 

"  Doiii  ?  why  fer  considerable  of  a  spell  back  he's  bin  hangin'  raoun' 
my  hen-roost  an'  pickin'  off  my  brammys ;  thet's  what  he's  bin  doin',  'n 
the  fust  time  I  sot  the  trap  I  stuck  it  under  some  chaff  in  the  hole 
yender  in  tlie  hen-haouse  jest  arter  the  hens  hed  gone  ter  roost — cal'latin' 


WINTER. 


143 


as   haow   I'd  wait  a  spell,  'n  then 

go  'n  take  it  awa}^      I  thort  that 

,r'' A      'ud  fetch   him   sure;    but  ^/zar, 

"  y'''-       deu  jreu   b'leeve,  I   heern    thet 

feller    cum'    sneakin'    along    putty 

soon,  'n  he   cum'  raoun'  to  t'other 

side  'n  scairt  all  the  hens  aout  the 

hole.     I  heern   a  great  squawkin',  'n  I 

put  fer  the  place  ez  tight  ez  I  cud,  'n 

thar  I  see  my  best  dorkin'  hen  in  the 

trap.     Ef  I'd  only  gyn  the  feller  time, 

like's  not  he'd  a  chawed  off  her  leg,  'n 

lugged  her  off  to  his  hole  in  the  rocks 

yender.      I   tell   ye,  everybody   araoun' 

what's  got  hens  hez  hed  to  take  thet 

^     feller's  sass,  'n  they'd  orter  be  an  end 

&      on't.      There's  old   Reuben   Scales, 

so  poor  he  hain't  got  a  pa'r  o' 

pants  teu  his  back,  'n  de- 


yl. 


pendin'  on  his  faowls  i 

fer  his  meat  vittles  ; 
why,  they  tell  me  daown 
t'    the    store    thet    he's 
bin  jest  cleaned  right    . 
ao7ct,  'n  hain't  got 
even  a  ha'r-backed 
pullet  left.     They 
ain't  no  gtinnin 
nuther.      Thet  red- 


A    SU.NNV    CURNER. 


144 


PASTORAL    DAYS. 


'",         haired    thief   hez    knabbed    every    tarnal   pattridge   'n 
^>'f        Bob  White  they  iz." 

""t-ii  -  And  so  he  went  on  for  half  an  hour,  telHna; 

"^ P>^*   Ji"     ™e  all  the  yarious  stratagems  by  which  Reynard 
c,V^""C^V      had  outwitted  him. 

J  "  I  set  it  thar  in  the  pme  woods  in  a 
bed  of  pine  needles,  with  the  ded  rabbit 
hangin'  over  it,  'n  the  next  day  I  see  by 
the  scratched  up  dirt  haow  the  feller  hed 
jumped  clean  over  the  trap  at  a  lick,  'n 
taken  his  rabbit  on  a  fly.  Yeu  kin  laff; 
but  what  I'm  tellin'  ye  is  az  true  az 
preachin'.  So  yest'd'y  I  lit  aout  on  a 
new  idee,  'n  set  the  trap  on  top  a  stump 
cluss  teu  a  tree  'n  covered  it  with  leaves. 
I  hung  the  bait  on  the  tree  higher  up, 
'n  sez  I,  old  feller,  I've  got  ye  naow,  sez 
I.  I  left  it  thar.  I  went  daown  thar 
agin  this  mornin',  'n  I've  jest  cum 
from  thar.  No  more  fox  fer  me; 
s'elp  me  gosh  !" 

"  Why,"  I  ask,  "  what  was  the 
matter  down  there,  Nathan  ?" 
"  Why,  blame   my   siogys, 
ef  the  feller  hadn't 
gone  'n  highsted 
the  clog-stick  on 
the  end  o'  the  chain, 
'n     shoved    it     agin 
pan,  'n  sprung  the  trap  on't,  'n  then  step- 
ped up  and  knabbed  the  bait.     An'  I  say  thet 
enny  feller  what's  got  brains  enuff  fer  thet,  I  swaiou 
he'd  oughter  live  off'n  urn  ;  'n  he  kin  fer  all  me  /" 

It  was  too  bad  to  have  fooled  old  Nathan  so  ;  but 
then,  you    see,  he    had    a    big   farm,  and  was    awfully 
stingy  with  us  boys,  and  never  would  let  us  set  a  rab- 
bit snare  on  his  place.     He  said  it  was  "  pesky  cruel,'' 
and   seemed  to   prefer   the    more   humane   way   of  wounding   tliem   with 


WINTER    IlKOWSINn. 


A  JANUARY   THAW. 


shot,  and  breakins^  their  necks  afterward  to  end  their  sufferinafs.  Nathan 
had  kept  very  quiet  about  his  Httle  game.  There  really  was  a  very  sly 
fox  in  the  neighborhood ;  but  boys  make  good  foxes  too,  sometimes. 

Nathan's  house  was  a  typical  New  England  home,  with  slanting  roof 
on  one  side,  and  embowered  in  maples,  and  it  had  the  most  picturesque 
barn  in  the  neighborhood.  Oh  you  good  people  far  off  in  the  country 
everywhere,  how  I  envy  you  these  dear  old  barns !  How  much  you  ought 
to  appreciate  their  homely  rustic  beauty!  But  you  never  will,  until,  like 
me,  you  are  forced  to  live  away  from  them,  and  to  see  them  only  through 
the  golden  haze  of  memory.  Then  you  will  learn  how  great  a  part  they 
took  in  influencing  your  daily  life  and  happiness. 

Was  ever  perfume  sweeter  than  that  all-pervading  fragrance  of  the 
19 


146  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

sweet-scented  hay  ?  and  was  ever  an  interior  so  truly  picturesque,  so  full 
of  quiet  harmony  ? 

The  lofty  hay-mows  piled  nearly  to  the  roof,  the  jagged  axe-notched 
beams  overhung  with  cobwebs  flecked  with  dust  of  hay-seed,  with  per- 
haps a  downy  feather  here  and  there.  The  rude,  quaint  hen  boxes,  with 
the  lone  nest-egg  in  little  nooks  and  corners.  How  vividly,  how  lovingly, 
I  recall  each  one ! 

In  those  snow-bound  days,  when  the  white  flakes  shut  in  the  earth 
clown  deep  beneath,  and  the  drifts  obstructed  the  highways,  and  we  heard 
the  noisy  teamsters,  with  snap  of  whip  and  exciting  shouts,  urge  their 
straining  oxen  through  the  solid  barricade ;  when  all  the  fences  and  stone 
walls  were  almost  lost  to  sight  in  the  universal  avalanche ;  and,  best  of 
all,  when  the  little  district  school-house  upon  the  hill  stood  in  an  impas- 
sable sea  of  snow — then  we  assembled  in  the  old  barn  to  play,  sought  out 
every  hidden  corner  in  our  game  of  hide-and-seek,  or  jumped  and  frolicked 
in  the  hay,  now  stopping  quietly  to  listen  to  the  tiny  squeak  of  some 
rustling  mouse  near  by,  or,  it  may  be,  creeping  cautiously  to  the  little  hole 
up  near  the  eaves  in  search  of  the  big-eyed  owl  we  once  caught  napping 
there.  In  a  hundred  ways  we  passed  the  fleeting  hours.  The  general 
features  of  New  England  barns  are  all  alike ;  and  the  barn  of  memory 
is  a  garner  full  of  treasure  sweet  as  new-mown  hay.  You  remember  the 
great  broad  double  doors,  which  made  their  sweeping  circuit  in  the  snow ; 
the  ruddy  pumpkins,  piled  up  in  the  corner  near  the  bins,  and  the  wistful 
whinny  of  the  old  farm-horse,  as  with  pricked-up  ears  and  eager  pull  of 
chain  he  urged  your  prompt  attention  to  your  chores ;  the  cows,  too,  in 
the  manger  stalls — how  pleasant  their  low  breathing — how  sweet  their 
perfumed  breath  !  Outside  the  corn-crib  stands,  its  golden  stores  gleam- 
ing through  the  open  laths,  and  the  oxen,  reaching  with  lapping  upturned 
tongues,  yearn  for  the  tempting  feast,  "  so  near  and  yet  so  far."  The 
party-colored  hens  group  themselves  in  rich  contrast  against  the  sunny 
boards  of  the  weather-beaten  shed,  and  the  ducks  and  geese,  with  rattling 
croak  and  husky  hiss,  and  quick  vibrating  tails  (that  strange  contagion), 
waddle  across  the  slushy  snow,  and  sail  out  upon  the  barn-yard  pond. 

Here  is  the  pile  of  husks  from  whose  bleached  and  rustling  sheaths 
you  picked  the  little  ravellings  of  brown  for  your  corn-silk  cigarettes. 
Did  ever  "pure  Havana"  taste  as  sweet? 

Near  by  we  see  the  barracks  stored  with  yellow  sheaves  of  wheat. 
Soon  we  shall  hear  the  intermittent  music  of  the  beating  flail  on  the  old 


WINTER. 


147 


barn  floor,  now  chinking  soft  on  the  broken  sheaf,  now  loud  and  clear  on 
the  sounding  boards.  Upon  the  roof  above  we  see  the  cooing  doves, 
with  nodding  heads  and  necks  gleaming  with  iridescent  sheen.  Turning, 
in  another  corner  we  look  upon  a  miscellaneous  group  of  ploughs  and 
rakes  and  all  the  farm  utensils,  and  harness  hanging  on  the  wooden  pegs. 
There,  too,  is  the  little  sleigh  we  love  so  well.  Could  it  but  speak,  how 
sweet  a  story  it  could  tell  of  lovely  drives  through  romantic  glens  and 
moonlit  woods,  of  tender  squeezes  of  the  little  hand  beneath  the  covering 
robe,  of  whispered  vows,  and  of  the  encircling  arm — a  shelter  from  the 
cold  and  cruel  wind !  But  no — I'll  say  no  more :  these  are  memories  too 
sacred  for  the  common  ear.  And  there's  the  carry-all  sleigh  just  by  its 
side.  How  well  you'll  remember  the  merry  loads  it  carried,  its  three 
wide  seats  and  space  between  packed  full  of  jolly  company !  How  the 
hard-pressed  snow  squeaked  beneath  the  gliding  runners,  as  with  pran- 


'■ri)m\v):n. 


THE   MOONLIGHT   RIDE. 


cing  span  and  jingling  bells  you  sped  down  through  the  village  street, 
with  waving  handkerchiefs  and  cheerful  greetings  right  and  left !  How 
with  "ducking"  heads  and  muffled  screams  you  ran  the  gauntlet  past 
the  school-house  mob ;  saw  them  scrambling  for  "  a  hitch,"  and  with  tan- 


148  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

talizing  beckonings  tipped  your  horses  with  the  whip.  Away  you  go 
through  the  deep  ravine,  with  2^.  jing,  jing,  jing  on  the  frosty  air,  with 
voices  high  in  merry  laughs,  amid  loud  hurrahs  from  the  "  boysterous " 
crowd  now  far  behind.  Now  you  speed  through  a  mist  of  drifting  snow, 
and  the  rosy  cheeks  tingle  with  the  stinging  icy  flakes  flying  before  the 
wind.  Now  comes  another  chorus  of  piercing  screams,  as  the  laden 
hemlock  bough,  tapped  with  mischievous  whip,  hurls  down  its  fleecy 
avalanche  on  coat  and  robe,  on  jaunty  little  hat — yes,  and  on  a  small 
pink  ear,  and  even  down  a  pretty  neck.  Ah  me !  How  is  it  possible 
that  a  shriek  like  that  could  come  from  a  throat  so  fair.?  But  so  you 
go,  with  a  jing,  jing,  jing,  now  past  the  mill-pond  with  its  game,  now  up 
the  hill,  now  through  the  woods  and  far  away,  now  farther  still,  the  sil- 
very bells  now  scarcely  heard,  now  fainter  yet,  till  lost  to  sight  and  sound 
— but  not  to  memory  dear;  for  all  through  life  we  shall  hear  those  happy 
jingling  bells. 

And  when,  with  ruddy  faces  and  stamping  feet,  we  all  rush  in  and 
crowd  the  old  fireplace,  how  welcome  the  glowing  warmth,  how  keen 
the  relish  for  the  appetizing  spread  upon  the  snow-white  table-cloth :  the 
smoking  dish  of  beans,  with  crisp  accompaniment  of  luscious  pork ;  the 
hot  brown  bread  so  sweet ;  and,  last  of  all,  the  far-famed  Indian  pudding, 
fresh  and  steaminor  from  the  old  brick  oven  ! 

How  distinctly  I  recall  those  long  and  happy  evenings  around  that 
radiant  hearth,  the  games,  the  stories  read  from  welcome  magazines ! 
Little  we  cared  for  the  howling  storm  without.  I  hear  the  tick  of  the 
ancient  clock  in  the  corner  shadowed  by  the  old  arm-chair;  I  see  the 
glimmer  on  the  whitewashed  wall,  the  festooned  strings  of  apples,  sliced 
and  hung  above  the  fire  to  dry ;  I  hear  the  patient,  expectant  stroke  of 
hammer  on  the  upturned  log,  and  now  the  crackling  burst  of  the  rough- 
shelled  butternut,  yielding  up  its  long  and  filmy  kernel ;  I  hear  the  apples 
sizzling  on  the  hearth,  the  puffy  snap  of  pop-corn  jumping  in  its  fiery  cage, 
the  kettle  singing  on  the  pendent  hook — a  thousand  things ;  and  what  a 
precious  living  picture  of  sweet  home-life  they  all  bring  back  to  me  !     . 

But  look !  there  is  another  hidden  picture  in  the  book  of  life — a 
shadowed  page,  which  we  had  well-nigh  forgotten.  See  that  crouching 
figure  in  the  dark,  deserted  street — that  spurned  and  wretched  outcast, 
without  a  home,  without  a  friend !  Perhaps  if  that  broken  heart  has  not 
already  ceased  to  yearn,  if  the  last  spark  has  not  yet  been  smothered  by 
the  driving,  covering  snow,  we  might  still  hear  the  faint  and  stifled  sobs  : 


r 


^'5* 


-V^^''"-- 


THE   SHADOWED    I'AGE. 


"  Once  I  was  loved  for  my  innocent  grace, 
Flattered  and  sought  for  the  charm  of  my  face. 
Father,  mother,  sisters,  all, 
God,  and  myself,  I  have  lost  in  my  fall. 
The  veriest  wretch  that  goes  shivering  by 
Will  take  a  wide  sweep  lest  I  wander  too  nigh, 
For  of  all  that  is  on  or  about  me,  I  know, 
There  is  nothing  that's  pure  but  the  beautiful  snow. 
How  strange  it  should  be  that  this  beautiful  snow 
Should  fall  on  a  sinner  with  nowhere  to  go  ! 
How  strange  it  would  be,  when  the  night  comes  again, 
If  the  snow  and  the  ice  struck  my  desperate  brain, 
Fainting,  freezing,  dying  alone  !" 


150  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

Life's  book  is  full  of  shadowed  pages  such  as  this ;  and  it  were  well 
if  in  the  midst  of  our  contented  homes,  around  our  cheerful  fires,  we 
stopped  to  think  and  give  a  silent,  heart-felt  prayer  for  those  who,  by 
some  strange,  inexplicable  fatality,  seem  doomed  to  walk  with  cruel  bur- 
dens and  with  bleeding  feet  the  path  of  life :  no  helping  hand,  no  friend, 
no  hope,  no  God. 

What  a  terrible  night !  Hark  how  the  wind  moans,  like  a  long  wail 
from  some  despairing  soul  shut  out  in  the  awful  storm !  The  air  is  filled 
with  dense  clouds  of  flying  snow  and  sleet  chased  along  by  the  gale. 
The  trees  bend  and  writhe,  and,  as  if  in  fear,  scratch  their  boughs  upon 
the  roof;  the  driving  flakes  beat  with  an  angry,  hissing  sound  upon  the 
window-panes,  and  for  a  moment  there  is  a  muffled,  ominous  silence. 
Now  comes  a  wild  and  furious  gust,  and  a  great  white  whirlwind  sweeps 
with  serpentine  contortions  past  the  window  and  disappears  in  the  thick 
darkness  of  the  night.  Our  very  walls  sway  and  tremble  to  their  foun- 
dation. The  clap-boards  snap,  and  some  loosened  blind  is  torn  from  its  _ 
hinges  and  hurled  as  a  feather  before  the  raging  wind.  We  hear  a  crash 
of  breaking  glass,  the  shaking  of  the  old  barn  doors,  and  now  a  fright- 
ened neigh,  half  smothered  in  the  storm. 

Who  would  venture  out  in  such  a  nis^ht  as  this  ?  We  shudder  at 
the  thought,  and  yet  there  is  one  whose  holy  sense  of  duty  will  see  no 
barrier  even  in  this  fierce  tempest.  Even  now  he  is  urging  his  faithful 
horse  onward  through  the  lonely  road,  cold  and  benvmibed,  but  thinking 
only  of  the  suffering  he  hopes  to  relieve. 

How  v/ell  I  remember  the  welcome  stamping  at  the  front  door,  the 
chinking  rattle  of  the  tin  box  sounding  nearer  and  nearer  up  the  stairs, 
the  tall  and  stately  figure  entering  the  room,  clad  in  great-coat  reaching 
nearly  to  the  floor,  the  genial  smile  bringing  both  hope  and  comfort  with 
its  very  presence !  And  what  a  noble  face !  the  shapely  forehead,  the 
snowy  tufts  of  close-cut  hair,  the  magnetic,  penetrating  eyes,  so  deep  and 
dark,  looking  out  from  beneath  the  heavy  jet-black  brows,  and  the  clean- 
shaven cheeks  and  chin,  of  almost  child-like  bloom,  relieved  against  the 
whiteness  of  the  stock  about  the  throat !  Never  before  were  winter  and 
summer  so  strangely  and  beautifully  blended  in  a  human  face.  But  we 
shall  see  that  face  no  more.  Physician,  friend,  companion,  all  were  laid 
away  with  him,  and  sad  indeed  was  the  day  that  bore  him  from  us. 
And  now,  as  I  look  down  upon  that  humble  grave,  I  would  that  others, 
with  the  reverence  I  feel,  might  read  the  sacred  epitaph  inscribed  upon 


WINTER. 


151 


my  memory,  of  one  whose  only  aim  through  Hfe  was  the  relief  of  suffer- 
ing and  sorrow.  In  storm  or  calm,  by  day  or  niglit,  he  fulfilled  his  holy 
mission.  And  when  the  fearful  scourge  swept  o'er  the  town,  and  filled 
its  homes  with  woe ;  when  friends  deserted  friends,  and  brothers  left 
their  kin,  this  noble  soul  sought  out  the  sick  and  dying,  cared  tenderly 
for  their  sufferings  until  the  end,  and  even  laid  the  dead  away  alone.  A 
life  of  sacrifice,  for  rich  or  poor  alike,  without  a  thought  of  self.  Pro- 
fessing no  religious  faith — yea,  doubting  even ;  but  finding  in  the  precept 
of  the  "golden  rule  "  an  inspiration  worthy  the  devotion  and  the  effort 
of  his  life:  "  By  \\-\^\x  fruits  ye  shall  know  them." 


THE   GOOD    PHYSICIAN. 


And  so  the  winter  goes.  It  has  its  joys  and  its  sorrows,  its  strong 
contrasts  of  light  and  shadow.  The  bitter  winds  will  freeze  and  rule  the 
earth,  but  the  sun  will  shine  again,  and  the  very  gloom  transform  to  glit- 
tering splendor.  Soon  we  greet  the  lengthening  days.  The  farmer 
heeds  the  warning  si^n.  The  woods  resound  with  the  stroke  of  the  axe 
and  crashing  of  falling  trees ;  and  the  prostrate  trunks  are  rolled  upon 
the  sledge  and  hauled  away  "  to  mill ;"  the  fields  are  strewn  with  com- 
post, and  meadows  sown  with  clover  on  the  snow,  fences  are  fixed,  and 
hot -bed  started  on  the  sunny  slope  ;  the  cackling  hens  have  felt  the 
prophecy,  and   steal  away   into   snug  little  places   among  the   hay-mows 


152  PASTORAL    DAYS. 

and  the  mangers,  and  lay  the  foundation  of  their  future  brood ;  the  climb- 
ing bitter-sweet  lets  fall  its  scarlet  seeds,  and  the  little  pussies  on  the 
willows  grow  day  by  day.  How  eagerly  I  always  watched  these  welcome 
signs !  for  even  though  I  loved  the  winter,  I  never  sorrowed  at  its  depart- 
ure in  the  face  of  coming  spring,  with  its  promises  of  the  medleys  of  the 
birds,  of  unfolding  buds,  and  those  sweet  shy  faces  soon  to  peep  along 
the  wood -path,  and  breathe  their  fragrance  from  among  the  withered 
leaves. 

I  remember,  too,  the  faded  butterfly,  flitting  about  the  wood-shed  roof. 
His  wings  were  torn  and  jagged  at  their  edges,  and  their  feathery  beauty 
had  nearly  all  been  left  among  last  summer's  flowers.  Warned  by  No- 
vember frosts,  he  had  sought  his  winter  shelter  in  some  chink  or  crevice 
among  the  loosened  boards,  where,  benumbed  and  dormant,  he  had  spent 
the  winter,  awaiting  the  warmth  of  the  returning  sun  to  thaw  him  out,  and 
once  more  coax  him  into  the  outer  world.  As  early  as  February,  should 
the  day  be  mild,  he  would  come  out  of  his  mysterious  concealment  and 
bask  in  the  warm  sunshine.  Presently  he  alights  upon  the  end  of  a 
birch-log  in  the  wood-pile,  and  sips  the  sweet  exuding  sap.  He  is  soon 
joined  by  another,  and  another,  until  a  swarm  has  gathered  at  the  feast. 
As  the  day  declines,  they  retire  again  to  the  wood-shed,  and  there,  hud- 
dled together  on  the  rafters,  await  their  next  opportunity  of  mild  and 
sunny  weather.  Even  in  a  January  thaw  I  have  seen  one  of  these  faded 
butterflies  that  had  left  his  hiding-place  to  tantalize  a  troop  of  hens 
around  the  barn-yard  door. 

I  remember  the  torrent  of  rain  and  the  freshet ;  the  broken  dams  and 
bridges  washed  away.  The  softened  ground  yielded  up  its  subterranean 
frosts ;  in  all  the  trees  the  winter  wounds  bled  with  the  quickened  pulse ; 
the  elder  spigots  in  the  sugar-maples  trickled  all  the  day ;  and  the  neigh- 
boring farms  echoed  with  the  snap  of  whip  and  voice  of  eager  teamsters, 
as  the  busy  plough  turned  the  dark-brown  furrows,  or  the  crushing  har- 
row combed  the  crumbling  mould.  How  welcome  were  the  evidences 
of  returning  life  among  the  low  meadow-lands,  where  velvety-green  tufts 
of  sprouting  grass  circled  the  borders  of  the  marshy  pools,  and  the 
golden  willow  twigs  bathed  the  brook-side  in  a  luminous  glow  !  Here, 
too,  the  alders  hung  their  swinging  tassels  or  trailed  them  o  er  the  sur- 
face of  the  swollen  stream. 

One  by  one  the  feathered  flocks  returned,  and  the  little  snow-birds 
and    the    buntings,  seeing    their   place    usurped,  left    for    the    northward 


WINTER. 


153 


region,  to  lend  their  cheerful 
voices  to  another  winter.  Then 
came  a  beautiful  day,  with  mild, 
earth-scented   breezes,  like   very 


sprmg. 


But  at  night  the  north 


^-j: 


wind  came  again  to  reassert 
its  power,  and  the  earth 
was  once  more  subdued  be- 
neath the  snow.  And  so 
foi  weeks  the  noith  wind 
battled  with  the  sun, 


:\J 


'vf. 


p 


>ili  at  last  the  «iueet  ilrkitu^ 
Rest  ing  close  on  T?ature5  breasl 
Fdtathrob  •  a  warm  eulsation 
f^ouse  it  jrom  iU  dreamy  red- 

throwing  wide  its  little  portals 
From  its  coverlet  oj  ^now 

It  eeeped  ^ortn  (rom  the  leafy  shelter 
int^  a -Valley -^luhile  Jjelow- 


intl  a 


Jim  I  dreaminQ?-^hall  the  Winter 
.$:tiUe  and  ,\reeie  my  earlv  keath 
l:^-  hark!-  rheaf  the  Bluebird  sineiriQ 
^pririQ  has  Gome  ne  answereth- 

j-lh !  Frost-UGwer  in  thy  qrotto  yonder 
^  <5ry5tal  ^un-oem  white  and  clear 
<Shv  reiqn  must  cease  when  I  awaken 
■;_  J^^rewell !  mh  bloom  •  thy  ^ate  draws  near 

■  ''/iOr^'^  -Winter  i-s  thine       s^  ^ 
■"' "'    ]j;0u€!$.:^prin^-time  is  mine  • 


^4r^*^'  IJJ^W^' 


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